Ascendant
by Taywen
Summary: Lt. Crosshaw goes directly to Thursday after drafting Arthur into the Army. Thursday decides to oversee Arthur's training himself, and Arthur finds that perhaps the Trustees aren't necessarily the villains he thought they were. AU, rewrite of events from the fourth book onwards. Slash. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The Keys to the Kingdom series does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Garth Nix, etc.

This is my attempt to write a fix-it for the end of the series! I don't agree with basically _every Denizen_ being destroyed, along with the House. So that's not going to happen this time around.

**Warnings**: Spanking, underage masturbation and fantasies, graphic violence, minor character death. Warnings will be updated for each part. Also, this fic will eventually be Arthur/Thursday. (Not while Arthur is underage.)

Also there are probably a ton of inaccuracies concerning the workings of the Army or, in the words of my notes, 'lol how does the military even work idk'.

* * *

Ascendant

* * *

Lieutenant Crosshaw is nearing his last five years of conscription when he is abruptly transferred to the recruitment branch within GHQ.

"Orders from on high," Major Pravuil informs him, smiling in a vague, insincere way that reminds Crosshaw of the Top Shelf. "I'm sure you remember the process from when you were drafted. As soon as the Denizen in question accepts Sir Thursday's shilling - which will be indicated on the top sheet - you will go to their home Demesne and issue their conscription orders. Here is your first draft notice, Lieutenant."

The moment Crosshaw takes the papers, Pravuil pulls a snappy salute. Crosshaw follows suit automatically. Ninety-four years in the Army is enough to ingrain such basic habits even in Denizens ill-suited to combat.

"That will be all, Lieutenant."

Without waiting for a reply, Pravuil spins on his heels and departs.

Crosshaw stares, honestly bewildered by this unexpected turn of events. He was not up for a promotion - which this very obviously is not - and he likewise had no indication that he would be transferred from his remote outpost to a position within the Citadel. He hadn't known what to expect when he had been summoned to HQ, but it certainly hadn't been to be whisked away by the major and given little information on his task before being set to it.

Well, there is no use in complaining about it. He is not much for combat in any case; the Citadel rarely has incursions, and his new position will likely allow him considerable movement beyond the Great Maze.

As he stares at the orders in his hands, an unseen hand elegantly spells out 'accepted' in the small space in the corner which had previously been unmarked.

"Best get to it then," Crosshaw mutters, adjusting his uniform. Pravuil had led him to the bank of elevators; it will be a simple matter to reach whichever Demesne he needs from here. With that thought in mind, he boards the nearest elevator.

"The Lower House," he murmurs, reading aloud as he peruses the sheets of parchment. He presses the button for Monday's Dayroom, then sways slightly as the elevator lurches into motion. It takes him a moment to regain his place. "Arthur Penhaligon..." His eyes widen, his words stuttering in tandem with his thoughts: "S-sixth in precedence?"

Crosshaw stares mutely at the pages in his hands. Surely there must be some mistake. _Sixth_ in precedence? Someone that high up can only be a Trustee, yet the orders state that his target's name is Arthur Penhaligon, not one of the Morrow Days.

It must be a mistake, Crosshaw concludes. There has been a definite rise in clerical errors since the departure of the Architect ten thousand years ago. Likely some lazy Piper's Child left off several zeroes when they were transcribing the orders. He will ask to examine the Denizen, fix the error, and bring him in to do his hundred years in the Army.

The doors slide apart, and Crosshaw steps out automatically.

A pair of Commissionaire Sergeants level their batons at him.

"Ah, I'm here with conscription orders for one Arthur Penhaligon," Crosshaw says, holding the papers out for one of the Sergeants to examine

* * *

This whole business does not sit well with Crosshaw. It's one thing to be suddenly transferred but another to find that three of the Morrow Days have been deposed by - here Crosshaw cannot help his gaze straying to the boy - a mere child, and a _mortal_ nonetheless.

The matter reeks of politics. Crosshaw does not like politics. He is a hardworking, loyal Denizen who has not left the Middle House (or even the Middle of the Middle, where he is an Illustrator Second Grade) except to do his mandatory hundred years in the Glorious Army of the Architect. Politics are for those of the Top Shelf.

Clad in the recruit uniform, Arthur could pass for a Piper's Child. Were it not for the papers clutched in his hand and his memory of the imposing woman who called herself Dame Primus, Crosshaw would think he had imagined that the boy was sixth in precedence within the House.

Perhaps it would be best to inform the sergeant in charge of new arrivals of the unique circumstances. Arthur is unremarkable; without knowledge of his identity, there would be no reason for anyone to assume he is anything but a Piper's Child.

Crosshaw does not even know if the Morrow Days have ever actually done time in the Army (besides Thursday, of course); would they receive special consideration? Major Pravuil had not made any indication that that should be the case, and yet...

Everything about this transfer seems off. Crosshaw and Pravuil were members of the same faction, and yet Crosshaw cannot ever recall hearing Pravuil's name. Granted, he has not memorized the names of the officers within the Horde, but the name surely should have warranted some recognition.

The Nithlings flooding into the Great Maze are a cause for concern as well. The outpost where Crosshaw's company is doing a tour had seen unprecedented amounts of Nithlings, and they were not the rabble that the Army was accustomed to fighting. Tectonic strategy yet allowed them to hold the day, but by all accounts the Boundary Fort had fallen and had yet to be retaken...

Mind made up, Crosshaw leaves Arthur in Sergeant Helve's care at Fort Transformation. The elevator ride to the Citadel is short enough that Crosshaw does not have time to rethink his decision. Sir Thursday might be unpredictable, but he is bound by the regulations of the Army. Crosshaw has only a bit more than five years left in the service, at which point he can return to the Middle House. Even if he receives a demotion, it will not affect his existence beyond the Army.

* * *

There is little delay before Crosshaw finds himself in a private briefing room with Marshal Dawn.

"Lieutenant Crosshaw," she says. Two of the fingers of her left hand have been splinted together, Crosshaw notices; otherwise, she is a flawless image of beauty, as one would expect from a superior Denizen.

"Marshal Dawn. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

She inclines her head the barest amount. "What is the problem? You have recently been transferred from an outpost to the recruitment branch, correct?"

"Yes; I delivered a newly drafted recruit today, in fact. His name was Arthur Penhaligon, sixth in precedence."

Dawn's face, stoic before, stills utterly the moment Crosshaw says the name.

"Come with me, Lieutenant," she says after a moment, and strides out of the room before Crosshaw has a chance to reply. He follows her through the maze that is the corridors of the Citadel, climbing higher until they must be nearly at the top level.

Dawn knocks at the only door in the hall.

"Enter," an irritable, authoritative voice commands.

Crosshaw has never heard it before, but he has a sinking feeling that it can only be Sir Thursday's voice.

Dawn motions for Crosshaw to follow her and enters. She pulls up several steps into the room and salutes Sir Thursday. Crosshaw does the same.

There is one other Denizen present, a man a mere inch shorter than Dawn. Marshal Dusk, Crosshaw assumes.

"What is it," Thursday says, his gaze piercing as he looks at Crosshaw.

"Lieutenant Crosshaw was recently transferred to the recruitment branch. He reports that Arthur Penhaligon was recently drafted and has been recruited."

"_What_," Thursday snarls, his features twisting with rage. "I did not order that upstart to be drafted into the Army!" His gaze returns to Crosshaw, who is paralyzed beneath the weight of that fury. "Who gave you those orders?" he demands harshly.

"M-major Pravuil, sir," Crosshaw stutters, barely able to force the words out.

"Pravuil," Thursday spits, turning away to study the map of the Great Maze spread before him. Or possibly just to glare furiously at it. Crosshaw assumes Thursday and Dusk were discussing strategy before he and Dawn entered.

Crosshaw can see a muscle in Thursday's jaw clenching. He is a little surprised that he can't hear the Trustee's teeth grinding together.

"Why did you not inform me earlier?" Thursday asks. His voice seems calmer, but Crosshaw can see the tension in his posture. Clearly he is still furious.

It is easier to speak without stammering when Thursday is not glaring at him, however.

"Major Pravuil instructed me on the procedures of recruitment when I reached the Citadel and handed me the recruitment orders immediately. Mere moments after, I was notified that the recruit had accepted. I did not wish to fall behind in my duties, so I boarded an elevator to the Lower House immediately. It was only then that I checked the identity of the recruit, sir."

"And why inform me _now_, when there is nothing I can do to deal with that _pest_."

"I was uncertain whether there were special circumstances concerning the term of service for Morrow Days or-" he gulps when Thursday glares at him, obviously offended that Crosshaw would equate Arthur to the Trustees, "-or not, sir," he finishes lamely. "My commanding officer in the recruitment branch referred me to his superior when I inquired, who then referred me to Marshal Dawn."

"Special circumstances!" Thursday scoffs. "Ha-"

He stops, a blank expression settling on his face.

"That will be all, Lieutenant. You may return to your post at the outpost; your services are no longer required for recruitment," Thursday says, though it seems his mind is not entirely on the conversation.

"Very good, sir," Crosshaw says, saluting. He recognizes a dismissal when he hears one, and Thursday had not even demoted him for bringing such unpleasant news.

"I will have someone escort you out," Marshal Dawn says, which is a relief. Crosshaw has no idea where this private office is located, and does not relish the thought of wandering the corridors lost.

* * *

Thursday is not expecting someone so blatantly mortal to be the Rightful Heir. There can be no mistaking Arthur Penhaligon for a Denizen; his features are not especially attractive, nor is he any taller than the average Piper Child.

The Will hisses in his mind, promises of vengeance and justice, all at the hands of this child.

Thursday clenches his fists, nearly hard enough to draw blood. The other Trustees had the luxury of hiding their portions of the Will far away; even with the predictable movements of its tiles, hiding the Fourth Part of the Will somewhere in the Great Maze was out of the question. If invading Nithlings happened upon it, or worse his own soldiers, it would doubtless escape.

So Thursday bound it with the Fourth Key, to be kept on his person at all times, and silenced its incessant hissing. He could not completely shut it out of his own mind, and so it is always speaking with him, sometimes little more than a murderous murmuring at the back of his thoughts, sometimes directly addressing him.

"Private Penhaligon, sir!" the sergeant says loudly.

Arthur salutes, though his form is imperfect. As could be expected from a fresh recruit without so much as a day's instruction beneath his belt.

"At ease," Thursday says, narrowing his eyes. Then, "Dismissed, Sergeant."

Arthur's stance relaxes, though his movements are made awkward by the cast on his leg. The sergeant snaps a salute and marches out, leaving them alone.

"Allow me to be frank, Private," Thursday says.

Arthur's eyes, which had been travelling about the room, whip back to meet Thursday's. "Sir?"

"Let's not pretend we know nothing of each other. Communication between the Great Maze and the other Demesnes may be limited but I am not oblivious to what goes on in the House," Thursday says. At any rate, there had been an increase in messages from Superior Saturday ever since Monday had fallen, culminating in _Major_ Pravuil - here Thursday feels himself sneer at the thought of Saturday's slimy Dawn - bringing down the orders for this latest campaign and, without Thursday's knowledge, the recruitment orders for Arthur Penhaligon as well. "_Lord_ Arthur."

Arthur glares back, undeterred. "You can't do anything to me."

"Indeed," Thursday agrees. "You are a soldier of the Army now. For whatever reason, my superiors - rather, the Superior would likely be more accurate - have decreed that you should be drafted. It is not my place to question orders, merely to execute them."

Confusion crosses Arthur's face, settling into a frown. "You didn't want to draft me?"

"Of course not," Thursday snaps, irritated. What possible reason would he have to invite another enemy into his midst? Bad enough that those modified Nithlings are flooding into his Maze; now he has someone infinitely more dangerous under his command? The mortal saying about keeping one's enemies closer is not something that Thursday agrees with, though it seems he does not have a choice in the matter. "However, you are as limited in this as I am, Private. You are under my command for the next hundred years, Rightful Heir or not."

"So, what, you're going to post me to the Borderers?" Arthur demands.

Thursday glares. "No. I am not so cowardly." He taps the fingers of his left hand against the desktop, the irregular beat betraying his agitation. Of course, anger is his natural state these days, and it has been since just after he broke the Will along with the other Trustees. "In the past, when a Morrow Day was drafted, they were put in the accelerated officers' track. Such a thing has not occurred for more than ten millennia, but there is no reason not to put this in practice."

Arthur's face betrays surprise this time. "You want to make me an officer? I don't know anything about war," he says.

Thursday shrugs. "You will be given the most junior officer rank: Second Lieutenant. As nearly every other officer - with the obvious exception of the Morrow Days has - had to work their way up the ranks, I will be taking charge of your education. If you accept my conditions, this will be your fate. I will not place you on the frontlines, unless it is in a capacity of command - assuming I deem you fit for such - and will not unduly place your life at risk."

Arthur bites his lip. "What are your conditions?"

"That you will respect my authority. You will not attempt to free the Will, nor will you attempt to communicate with it so long as you serve in the Army. You will not attempt to wrest the Fourth Key from me. You will not attempt to subvert my authority in any way to achieve dominion of the Great Maze, including but not limited to attempting to cause dissension within the ranks or enlisting outside aid."

"Or what?"

"If you refuse, I will return you to Fort Transformation. When you receive your posting in a year's time you will, as you suspected, be posted to the Borderers. If you disobey me after agreeing to my terms, I will discipline you in a manner befitting your disobedience."

Arthur takes a breath. He seems to realize the vulnerability of his situation. "You won't permanently harm me," he says, surprising Thursday with his audacity. He is attempting to bargain? He has not a leg to stand on. "I- I've heard that you have a temper. I don't want you to rip my arm off or something in a fit of rage."

Thursday can hear the blood rushing in his ears as his temper rises in response. He clenches his teeth, glaring. How _dare_ this mere boy-? "I will have no reason to do so as long as you keep your end of the agreement," Thursday grits out.

"Ok," Arthur says hurriedly, before Thursday can change his mind. "Yes. I agree to your conditions. I'll go into the accelerated officer track."

* * *

Thursday seems to calm, or at least his fury abates somewhat, because the muscle in his jaw relaxes. His fingers are still drumming against the desk, but somehow the sound is less furious as well.

"Very well, Mister Penhaligon." Thursday stands. He's not very tall for a superior Denizen, nor is he particularly handsome. Thursday is not obviously muscled either, as Arthur would have suspected for someone in charge of the Army; the sergeant who Lieutenant Crosshaw had left Arthur with looked much stronger.

"I henceforth commission you as Second Lieutenant Penhaligon," Thursday says. Something in Arthur's mind eases; he's probably as safe as he is going to get in the Great Maze now. "Do you have a preference for the faction?"

"Faction, sir?" Arthur repeats. He thinks that he's heard the word before, but the meaning is beyond him; there's no clues from Thursday's sentence either.

"There are six factions with the Glorious Army of the Architect, Second Lieutenant. They are the Regiment, the Horde, the Legion, the Moderately Honourable Artillery Company, the Borderers and the Scouts. Though I do not think you will be suited for the latter two."

Arthur nods cautiously. "Yes, sir."

Thursday studies him for a moment. "The Regiment, then. Should you decide you wish for a transfer after learning more about the factions, it will be arranged."

"Yes, sir."

"Sergeant!" Thursday calls, and the sergeant who had led Arthur through the maze of the Citadel reappears. "Escort Mister Penhaligon to the quartermaster. He will need to be outfitted with Regimental uniforms suitable for a Second Lieutenant."

* * *

"I am the leader of the Regiment," Thursday explains, after Arthur has been issued his new uniform and given a brief and utterly confusing tour of the Citadel. The last stop is a relatively small (by House standards, anyway) room which is largely dominated by a map. Thursday's waiting for him, along with three obviously superior Denizens. "Marshal Noon commands the Horde. Marshal Dawn's factions are the Borderers and the Scouts. And the other two, led by Marshal Dusk, are...?"

"The Legion and... the Moderately Honourable Artillery Company, sir," Arthur promptly answers. Although he has not been able to absorb all of the information that he is suddenly being bombarded with, he figures committing what Thursday tells him to memory is most important.

"Correct. For the next month, your mornings will be dedicated to lessons concerning the Regiment with me. You will sup in the officers' mess at noon, after which your afternoon will be instruction about the Horde with Marshal Noon. After the evening meal, you will attend the briefing within the operations room. Instruction concerning the Legion and the Moderately Honourable Artillery Company will take place the following month. As discussed, the Borderers and the Scouts are not suitable, so you will not receive in-depth instruction about those. "

"Yes, sir."

* * *

The days take on a routine after that.

Thursday is not a patient instructor, though he is thorough. As long as Arthur manages to demonstrate some skill within the first two attempts he makes, Thursday seems to be satisfied. Any longer and the Trustee grows angry, though he stays true to his word and does not lash out at Arthur, beyond the weapons demonstrations.

Marshal Noon's attitude is at first condescending, but it fades when he is faced with Arthur's tenacity.

"The material you are learning is generally taught over the course of a year," the marshal remarks with a grudging sort of respect one day. Arthur isn't sure if any of the marshals know the exact details of his arrangement with Thursday, but they must suspect. "Granted, other information is taught concurrently, however - assuming your current rate of growth continues - you will have learned the majority of the recruit curriculum and a great deal of the officer curriculum as well at the end of these two months."

Meals are a strange thing. Generally only two of the marshals are present. As far as Arthur has been able to gather, they deal with most of the day-to-day affairs in shifts. Arthur sits two seats to Thursday's right; the seat between is taken up by either Noon or, if he is not present, Dawn. The seat directly to the Thursday's left is occupied by Dawn (when Noon is present) or Dusk.

The first couple of days, Arthur is simply overwhelmed from everything he has learned from Thursday and Noon earlier in the day. He pays little attention to the discussions of the upper officers as they regard the map of the Great Maze, although given the sheer number of black figures travelling about the Maze, he gets the idea that it is not an easy campaign.

After that, he tries to keep up with the conversation, with varying degrees of success. Sometimes it seems like the Denizens are speaking in a foreign language. Arthur whispers questions to the captain that Thursday assigned to him, and that helps a little bit.

He usually falls asleep to the steady tromping of the patrol. Arthur thinks it's a little silly to have a patrol so high up, particularly when using wings is practically suicidal. The only people on the upper floor are Thursday and Arthur anyway; anyone wanting to go up against the Trustee would _have_ to be suicidal.

* * *

"Sir," Arthur says one day, dutifully trailing after Thursday as they make their way to the officers' mess for lunch.

"Speak," Thursday says tersely. His mood seems to fluctuate without reason; one moment he can seem satisfied with Arthur's progress, the next he will be snapping at him to learn more quickly. Arthur tries not to take it personally. Obviously breaking the Will has messed up Thursday as bad as it did the other Trustees.

"I was thinking about something you said last night, in the operations room. You said that the New Nithlings' commander must be getting help from within your command structure."

Thursday's fists clench in agitation. "There is no other explanation," he agrees flatly. "How else could that rabble continue advancing at that rate? No mere chance could have brought them this far. They must have someone relaying the movement of the tiles."

"But... could their commander not have an Ephemeris?"

"Impossible," Thursday snaps, his gaze flickering briefly to Arthur before clearly dismissing him and returning to scan the hall ahead of them. "Only the Denizen whose name is on the cover of an Ephemeris may so much as touch it."

"Like how the four Gates can only be controlled by the commander of the Boundary Fort, sir?" Arthur asks, more thinking aloud than anything.

Thursday had started to explain about the function of the Boundary Fort yesterday morning, but then he'd gotten so angry that they had abruptly switched topics. Arthur had asked Noon about it later that day, and the Marshal had related the working of the Gates (specifically, how it was forbidden to open more than three at once, and even that much only occurred rarely) and also how the New Nithlings had somehow managed to reopen them a couple of weeks after Colonel Nage and his cohort of the Legion fell defending it.

Thursday abruptly stiffens and halts, so that Arthur has to do a strange stumbling hop to avoid walking into him. His cast bangs awkwardly against the stone floor, the echoes reverberating down the otherwise deserted hall. Arthur cringes at the racket, but Thursday either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore it.

"They would need to be a sorceror of a high calibre," Thursday says quietly. "To trick the sorcery of the Ephemeris. But then, the New Nithlings are anything but ordinary; something among them has already demonstrated the means to open the four Gates. Very good, Second Lieutenant Penhaligon."

Arthur blinks. He hadn't worked that out when he'd asked his second question, but before he can make a reply to that effect Thursday has already stalked off. Arthur's hindered by his cast, so he falls behind. Luckily Arthur's memorized the routes from Thursday's office (not to be confused with his study) or the training courtyard to the officers' mess by now.

Thursday doesn't usually eat much at the meals anyway, but he doesn't touch his plate at all that day. He and the two marshals speak in low, urgent voices throughout. Arthur picks at his food, trying (and mostly failing) to eavesdrop.

* * *

Two and a half weeks in, Arthur breaks one of the Thursday's conditions.

Satisfied with Arthur's familiarity with the Regiment's weaponry, Thursday has taken to drilling Arthur in their standard manoeuvres. Unlike Arthur's other training, drilling takes him far too long to master, in Thursday's opinion.

It's the cast. Arthur's asthma is a non-issue in the House, and Noon had prescribed him a daily workout, to be completed before he joins Thursday for the morning's instruction, which had been increasing his fitness.

"Enough," Thursday snaps, frustrated. "Your leg is taking too long to heal."

"Huh?" Arthur asks intelligently, thrown by the non-sequitur.

Thursday raises his hand to his omnipresent beret (and the gaudy, golden badge pinned to it). The moment he pulls it off, the badge grows into a life-size version of the sword it depicted, complete with the strange snake hilt.

A shivering thrill rushes through Arthur, even as he takes an apprehensive step back. The massive blade can only be the Fourth Key to the Kingdom. "Sir-"

"Heal Penhaligon's leg," Thursday says, pointing the blade at the cast.

The cast cracks apart, identical halves clattering to the ground. A moment later, they disintegrate into sand, leaving nothing but two small mounds behind.

"What did you do!?" Arthur demands, horrified, glaring up at Thursday.

A strange expression crosses the Trustee's face, though it is swiftly replaced by his usual anger. "It should be obvious," he snaps. If Arthur wasn't so upset, he'd probably feel relieved that Thursday has already refastened the Key-badge to his beret.

"It should've only been another week or so before the cast fell off!" Arthur shouts.

"I would expect you to be grateful to have it off early," Thursday says, his tone deceptively calm.

Arthur's only seen him really furious on two occasions, and they both happened before Thursday abruptly limited the number of Ephemerides and issued changes only to those he deemed trustworthy after he came to the conclusion that the New Nithlings' commander possessed an Ephemeris. This tone is like the deep breath before jumping off a really high cliff, or maybe the calm before a vicious storm. And Thursday has only ever used it right before he absolutely loses it.

Arthur ignores the warning and plunges on, too upset to care. "Now I'm that much closer to becoming a Denizen!" He waves his hand, and more specifically Scamandros' crocodile ring, in front of Thursday's face.

"Watch your tone," Thursday says.

"I don't _want_ to be a Denizen! I just want to go home and be left _alone_! Why don't you Trustees understand that!?"

"I have given you ample warning," Thursday snaps, stalking forward. He grabs Arthur's wrist in one callused hand. "I will not tolerate this sort of disrespect any longer."

Arthur's eyes widen, and he tries to pull his arm out of Thursday's grasp. It doesn't work, of course. Thursday might not look especially strong, but Arthur was disabused of that notion a few days after he began training.

"Where-"

"Silence," Thursday snaps, dragging him out of the training courtyard and through the halls. The Denizens that they pass avert their eyes, obviously unwilling to risk Thursday's wrath.

"No," Arthur protests, struggling to escape Thursday's grasp. It's futile; Thursday's strength is implacable, and when he tightens his grip on Arthur, he has little choice but to relent with a pained gasp. Any more and his bones feel like they'll shatter beneath Thursday's fingers. Not only would it be painful, but if Thursday chose to heal the injuries with the Key, Arthur's transformation into a Denizen would only increase.

"Such disrespect," Thursday snarls, though his grip does ease slightly. It only feels like he's being held by a vise as opposed to being pressed beneath a ton of rock now. "If you will not modify your attitude willingly, I will have to induce you to do so."

Arthur shudders, fury and helplessness and a little bit of fear rushing through him. That doesn't sound good.

Thursday abruptly throws him to the ground, but rather than the harsh jarring Arthur would have expected from hitting the stone floor of the Citadel, his fall is cushioned by a plush carpet. They have entered a room, though Arthur was too distracted to notice their destination.

He scrambles to his feet as Thursday kicks the door closed. The lock slides home with a solid thunk.

Arthur's breathing hard, glaring up at the Trustee. "Where have you taken me?"

"My study," Thursday says, stalking forward.

Arthur finds himself retreating; his gaze darts to the rest of the room, recognizing it now that Thursday has named it. There are no convenient weapons on display for him to grab to defend himself, unfortunately; just a few bookcases and a portrait or two. He flinches when the back of his thighs hit something, and when he twists his head to look back, he sees that it's the desk.

In the span of that moment, Arthur realizes his mistake. He whips back around, but Thursday is already there. He grabs Arthur's upper arm and spins him around like Arthur weighs nothing, and then his other hand is pressing between Arthur's shoulder blades.

"What-"

Arthur flinches in pain when his chest hits the solid surface of the desk. His hand scrabbles for something to fight with, but there is not so much as a fountain pen. He settles for kicking back, though it is obvious that his attempts don't cause Thursday any real pain.

"The more you struggle, the worse you make this for yourself," Thursday informs him, roughly kicking his legs apart.

Arthur's eyes widen and he tries to crane his head back to look. Thursday's hand on his back stops him from really seeing anything, however. "What are you-"

Thursday grabs hold of Arthur's belt and rips it off.

"_Stop_-" Arthur protests, struggling; like before, it's useless. His breeches and underwear are dragged midway down his thighs, restricting his movement.

"Be silent," Thursday snarls. "Do feel free to inform me if I break something, however."

A sob tries to claw up his throat, but Arthur ruthlessly pushes it back. He won't give Thursday the satisfaction-

He cries out when Thursday brings the flat of his hand down against his ass. Tears of pain and humiliation (and relief but Arthur- Arthur won't think about that right now) well up in his eyes, and his knees buckle when Thursday spanks him again.

"Straighten your knees," Thursday orders. "Or I will double your punishment."

It hurts. Arthur doesn't know how many times Thursday intends to strike him, but the thought of doubling that amount is too much. Two strikes is already too much. He grits his teeth and straightens his knees.

Thursday smacks him again, and Arthur's legs buckle once more. A sob forces its way past his lips, but he struggles back up.

"Too hard, perhaps," Thursday says. His next strike is not nearly as forceful, but Arthur's skin is already smarting and it still hurts. Arthur trembles, but does not buckle.

Thursday slaps the back of one thigh, then the other, sending fresh waves of pain outward. Arthur tastes blood and realizes that he's bitten through his lip. Every hit draws a pained cry from him, but apparently that is allowed, because Thursday doesn't say anything about it.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, trying to focus on the tears dripping down his cheeks rather than the steady, implacable rhythm of Thursday's spanking. It doesn't work, nor does focusing on the texture of the desk against his cheek (smooth, despite appearances of wood) or the bite of the edge of the desk against his belly (less than the hot sting of pain from his rear).

At length, Arthur becomes aware that Thursday has stopped. His legs are trembling uncontrollably, knees protesting the locked position that he has put them in, but he can't bring himself to move.

"Stand up straight," Thursday says, speaking for the first time since controlling his strength earlier. Arthur doesn't know how much time has passed.

His arms almost don't obey, but there's nothing wrong with them, so Arthur presses his hands against the surface of the desk and pushes himself up slowly. It hurts, his sorely abused muscles protesting the motion, but he doesn't dare disobey.

Thursday is standing midway between the opposite wall and Arthur himself, an unreadable expression on his face, when Arthur manages to straighten up and slowly turn around.

His deep-set eyes travel the length of Arthur's body before focussing on his face.

Which reddens when Arthur realizes that, of all things, he's hard.

"Fix your uniform and return to your quarters. You are dismissed for the day, Second Lieutenant Penhaligon."

Without waiting for a reply, Thursday stalks to a door to his right that Arthur hadn't noticed before and disappears through it.

Arthur closes his eyes, humiliation and shame flaring through him. But only for a moment. With painstaking care, he leans down to grasp his pants, and sets his uniform to rights before retreating to his quarters.

* * *

There is a soft tap on his door. The call for the evening meal was more than an hour ago, but Arthur didn't go. He'd skipped the midday meal as well, and his lesson with Marshal Noon; the thought of sitting for any length of time was almost too much to contemplate. Practicing riding a Not-Horse would have been torture.

Arthur turns his head towards the door, but is unwilling to do more. He just wants to lie on top of the bedspread and try to ignore his still throbbing backside. He probably just imagined the tap.

As if on cue, it sounds again.

"Second Lieutenant Penhaligon?" a hoarse voice calls.

Marshal Dusk. It would be disrespectful to ignore a superior office, and while he doubts Thursday would really care if Arthur showed disrespect to anyone but him, he still doesn't want to risk it.

"Just a moment," Arthur calls. His voice is nearly as hoarse as Marshal Dusk's. He grimaces and rolls of the bed, staggering ungracefully as he puts weight on abused muscles. Thankfully it is only a few steps to the door.

"Good evening," Marshal Dusk says, his gaze flashing over Arthur's body. Checking for something? Arthur tries not to shift his weight beneath the keen scrutiny, knowing that doing so would only cause himself to wince.

"Good evening, Marshal Dusk," Arthur says, trying to sound casual. His voice still sounds rough to his ears, but there isn't much he can do about it. "What can I do for you?"

"Ah, nothing. I had a few minutes before my watch began and wanted to give you this." Marshal Dusk holds out a jar of some kind of ointment.

Arthur blinks. He's not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't a random gift. "Thank you, sir." He accepts the small container.

"It is an analgesic ointment. It should alleviate any pain you might be experiencing," Marshal Dusk explains. "I can help you apply it if-"

Arthur stiffens, ignoring the burn in his muscles that the action causes. "That won't be necessary, sir," he says coldly.

Marshal Dusk looks briefly confused, before the stoic mask that he and his fellow Times usually wear falls back into place. "Sir Thursday's preferred method of punishment to junior officers is lashes." It is not phrased inquiringly, but Arthur can hear the question nevertheless. "Surely it would cause you further pain to apply it yourself."

"It wasn't lashes," Arthur says shortly, then bites his lip. Just thinking about it was enough to make humiliated tears prick at his eyes. He looks away, focussing on the stone floor besides the Time's perfectly polished boot. "I- Pardon my rudeness, Marshal Dusk. I appreciate the gift. I can apply the ointment myself... I wouldn't want to make you late for your watch."

Dusk still looks concerned, but doesn't press the issue. "Very well. I will see you tomorrow, Second Lieutenant."

"Marshal." Arthur salutes him.

It would be humiliating to have to apply the ointment to his ass and the backs of his thighs if the pain didn't fade to a dull, much more manageable ache almost immediately. The ointment smells strongly of menthol, but there is no indication of ingredients on the unadorned jar. Arthur doesn't really care what's in it, though; the pain is much lessened, and he manages to fall into a fitful sleep.

If he was more alert, he might have noticed that the night's patrol marched past with unusual frequency.

* * *

Thursday acts as if nothing had transpired the day before. His sparring - if it can really be considered such; Thursday might not be using his full strength but he is relentless in essentially beating Arthur to the ground - has worsened because he's still sore and bruised even if his leg is healed, but Thursday makes no mention of that either.

After lunch, Arthur has his lessons about the Horde with Marshal Noon. The Marshal doesn't mention Arthur's absence from the day before. All he says on the subject is, "Sir Thursday expects absolute obedience from his soldiers, Second Lieutenant."

Marshal Noon then calmly begins to explain about the standard skirmishing tactics employed by the Horde before Arthur can ask any questions, or point out that the bruises marring Noon's (and Dawn's, and Dusk's) handsome face are evidence that even Thursday's highest officers do not offer complete obedience.

The days become routine again, though Arthur is careful not to excite Thursday's anger. He doesn't know why he reacted so badly; but Thursday healing his leg was totally unexpected. Arthur's pent-up resentment and frustration just boiled over as a result.

The gold of the crocodile ring has not consumed too much of the silver; it touches the fourth line, but has not passed it.

* * *

Four weeks after Arthur first entered the Great Maze, Thursday pronounces himself satisfied with Arthur's progress.

"Marshal Noon tells me that your instruction concerning the Horde is complete," Thursday adds. "Therefore, you may have a day's leave. I will, however, expect you to attend tonight's briefing."

"Thank you, sir."

"Dismissed."

Arthur salutes him and marches out. His feet take him to the officers' mess, before he realizes that it's still early in the morning. Apart from that one time that Arthur has done his best to erase from his memory, Thursday has never dismissed him before lunch.

He hesitates, wondering what to do with himself now that he has some free time. He could try calling Suzy - just to find out how things are going in the Lower House - but apart from the telephone in the operations room, Arthur hasn't seen any.

"Second Lieutenant Penhaligon."

Arthur halts, immediately coming to attention and offering the Denizen a salute. "Marshal Dawn."

"Stand easy, Second Lieutenant. Our lessons on the Legion will begin tomorrow morning; in the meantime, I gather that Sir Thursday has granted you a day of leisure?"

Arthur nods. "Yes, Marshal."

"Might I suggest stopping at the Post Office?" Dawn says. "So long as you keep to the terms of your agreement with Sir Thursday, I do not see any problem with you writing a letter to your subordinates."

Arthur blinks. That's a good idea. "Thanks, I think I will." Then he pauses; he knows that the tour he took on the first day in the Citadel included the Post Office, but he has no idea where it's located.

"Sergeant," Dawn says, flagging down a passing NCO. "Escort Mister Penhaligon to the Post Office."

"At once, Marshal."

* * *

There aren't any letters waiting for him, not that Arthur was expecting there to be. Officers get their mail delivered. He had no means of contacting the Lower House to inform them of his current situation (though in hindsight, he probably could have used the postal system all along), and he didn't think that Dame Primus would want to send him anything for fear of the information being found by Thursday.

Arthur dashes off two quick letters.

The first is to Dame Primus, detailing the agreement he'd reached with Thursday to enter the accelerated officers track reserved for Morrow Days and that he was currently a Second Lieutenant of the Regiment.

The second is to Suzy, who he thinks will be more helpful and open about information; he asks her if they've heard anything about Leaf and the Skinless Boy.

* * *

Arthur likes his lessons with Marshal Dusk the best. There are fewer weapons drills to undertake, because many of them involve heavy firearms that must be manned by teams.

"I do not think it advisable for the Rightful Heir to be associated with a Company that is only Moderately Honourable," Dusk explains. "If you do not intend to continue in the Company, there is no reason to learn the specifics. Should you one day come to command a team of Artillerists, you will doubtless have the opportunity to delegate."

He kind of wants to transfer to the Company just for that, even if they are only _Moderately_ Honourable. Marshal Dusk is nothing of the sort, and like the first Dusk that Arthur met, he is much more agreeable than Noon. And he can't forget the jar of ointment that Dusk had given him, either.

"Also, Nothing powder is unstable; your danger would only increase if you joined the Company," Dusk adds, as if sensing the path of Arthur's thoughts.

Arthur bites his lip. "You would know the risks of joining the Company best," he finally decides. "If you don't think I should, then I won't, sir."

Dusk nods. "Very good, Second Lieutenant."

Instead, Dusk helps Arthur improve his swordplay or explains about various aspects of the Army or the Great Maze that might otherwise be overlooked. Through him, Arthur comes to a greater understanding of the Army; Dusk provides details to fill in the gaps between what Arthur has learned about the various factions until he has a grasp of the Army as whole, rather than its various parts.

Consequently, he learns that, although tectonic strategy yet allows the Army to claim victory over the New Nithlings, the vast number of Nithlings flooding the Maze and spreading to more and more tiles brings the enemy ever nearer to a critical mass. There might be one million tiles, but as more and more of them fill with Nithlings it is impossible to keep those scheduled to land near the fixed locations like the Citadel or Fort Transformation free of enemies.

The tiles, Dusk explains, cannot simply be moved randomly. Thursday has some leeway in changing the schedule, but it is a painstaking task; there are hundreds of thousands of tiles to consider.

The only good thing is that, when it became obvious that retaking the Boundary Fort was impossible at this time, Thursday had activated a failsafe which sealed the Gates for good, until he unsealed them once more using the Fourth Key.

* * *

Arthur receives a letter about two weeks after he begins learning about the Legion and the Moderately Honourable Artillery Company.

At first he thinks it's a reply from the Will - no offense to Suzy or anything, but the writing is much too fancy to be hers - but rather than tediously listing the titles he has gained and has yet to gain, it's simply addressed to Arthur Penhaligon.

Curious, he quickly opens it. Like every other letter he's received within the House, the letter is written on the inside of the envelope. The parchment is thick and heavy, obviously expensive and high quality. The writing is in silver ink that is pale enough to make it difficult to read.

His eyes widen in disbelief as he reads. It's from Superior Saturday, and she claims to have control over his parents. Or, more accurately, 'an agent of ours has control over your parents'... He frowns. An agent? Does she mean the Skinless Boy? He wonders how much time has passed since Leaf returned to Earth; has she been successful in finding the pocket?

Arthur flips the letter over, but apart from his name, there's no indication of when it was written. Given the state of the postal service, he can only imagine how long it would take for a letter from the Upper House to arrive in the Great Maze.

Surrendering to Saturday's demands is out of the question, even if she's threatening to erase his existence from his family's mind. Arthur will just have to hope that Leaf is successful. Time moves slowly relative to the House, or at least it can; after all, a whole year passed in the House in less than a day on Earth.

Arthur bites his lip and refolds the letter. He's not going to give up and sign on the dotted line like she wants, he's just... He's just keeping it in case something happens.

* * *

Arthur's in the dining room of the new house, sitting at the table with his family. Eric and Bob are chatting about Eric's basketball team and Michaeli's texting someone on her cell phone. Emily is absent, probably caught up at the hospital again.

Even so, Arthur's happy that the four of them are here. Eric is busy with extra-curricular activities and Michaeli can usually be found studying or hanging out with her boyfriend. It's not often so many of the Penhaligons that still live at home sit down for a meal together.

Eric must've forgotten to set Arthur a place. Rolling his eyes, Arthur gets himself a plate and some cutlery.

"Hey, can you pass the vegetables?" he asks Michaeli, who's sitting across from him.

She doesn't look up from her phone, even when Arthur nudges her ankle with his foot.

Frowning, he turns to Bob. "Dad? The vegetables?" he asks, when it becomes obvious that he's not going to scold Michaeli for ignoring her youngest brother.

Bob's staring straight at him, or rather, _through_ him to Eric, who's sitting beside Arthur. They're both completely focussed on their conversation.

"Dad?" Arthur repeats loudly. "Dad! Eric!?" He shakes his brother's shoulder, or tries to. His fingers pass right through, like there's nothing there. Horrified, Arthur tries to grab something, anything, but his hands slide through everything.

There's a tap on his shoulder, and when Arthur turns around he finds himself face to face with... himself. The other Arthur grins, layers of skin peeling away from his skull to expose muscle and flesh, and then Arthur's falling through the floor, screaming.

There's nothing but darkness. It feels like the Front Door, except the Lieutenant Keeper is nowhere to be seen.

He twists around in the dark, straining his eyes for some sign of light - a doorway, or maybe a pair of wings - but there's nothing. And then he turns and sees her.

She's impossibly beautiful, unnaturally tall. A Trustee. _Saturday_.

"It is as if you never existed," she says, her smile beautiful and terrible. "It's time to fit reality to fact." She marches forward steadily, her footsteps echoing strangely for all that there is nothing for her feet to touch, and raises a gleaming sword and-

* * *

Arthur wakes up gasping for breath. His sheets are soaked with sweat. He fumbles for the lamp on the bedside table and ends up brushing the thick parchment of Saturday's letter.

He tosses it to the floor with a shout. The footsteps that he'd dreamt are, he realizes, the footsteps of the patrolling soldier. They halt briefly after Arthur's shout, but resume a moment later.

Arthur runs a hand through his sweaty hair, shuddering. That dream - that _nightmare_ - wasn't going to happen. It wasn't.

He lays back down, but quickly realizes it'll be impossible to fall asleep. Although the steady footsteps of the patrolling soldier usually lull him to sleep, they don't do the trick tonight.

Maybe because Arthur is no longer accustomed to hearing them, but probably because of his nightmare. His heart is still pounding, and he can't forget the horrible details, the way his happiness at seeing his family had slowly morphed into dread.

The footsteps pace back, and Arthur suddenly decides that if he's not going to be able to sleep he might as well have company. He pulls on his boots and uniform jacket, but doesn't feel like changing out of his pyjamas.

Arthur waits until the footfalls pass again, then opens the door. And freezes, unable to keep from gaping at the Denizen.

"Wait, it's you?" he asks, too shocked to filter his words.

Thursday's brows draw together, heralding a frown.

"I- sorry, sir. I was just surprised to see you, um, awake at this hour," Arthur says quickly, coming to attention. He doesn't think it'll be a good idea to tell Thursday Arthur thought he was a common soldier assigned to patrol the corridor.

"I don't sleep," Thursday says.

Arthur looks at him blankly. "At all? I thought even Army Denizens had to sleep eventually."

"At all," Thursday snaps, his mouth twisting bitterly. "The Will does not let me rest. It is always seeking to escape and it is never quiet!"

Arthur takes an uncertain step back. "I didn't know, sir." No wonder he's angry all the time. Talking with Dame Primus is always irritating; if he had to listen to her twenty-four-seven? And couldn't sleep? Arthur'd be cranky too. Not that that excuses the deplorable way he takes out his temper on his subordinates, though.

Anyway, it's his own fault for breaking the Will along with the other Trustees...

Thursday exhales. "Why are you up at this hour, Penhaligon?"

"Nightmare, sir."

There's a wistful look in Thursday's eyes, "You should try to get some rest regardless, Second Lieutenant."

Arthur bites his lip. "I don't think I'll be able to, sir. It was a pretty bad dream."

"What about?"

"My family," Arthur says. He knows enough about Thursday to realize that the Trustee has no interest in the Secondary Realms. And from what little he has mentioned about Superior Saturday, he seems not to agree with her actions. "I... I got a letter from Superior Saturday today."

Thursday scowls, his hands clenching into fists at the mention of her name. "Indeed," he mutters.

"Yeah. She said she has my parents under her control and if I don't give up the Keys, she'll make it like I never existed to them and the rest of my family."

"And how does she intend to do that?"

"Um... There's this Nithling that she made from a, well, a shirt pocket of mine. It can mentally control anything that it comes in contact with. It looks like me and assumed my identity when it passed through the Front Door into my world. So I guess it would make my family think I'd never existed..."

Thursday's mouth thins. "That would only be viable if the Nithling remained in your Secondary Realm. If it is destroyed, there is no reason why the changes it made should remain intact. Though," he adds, "I am no sorceror."

Arthur nods, offering Thursday a tentative smile. He feels a lot better to hear that. "I hope so..."

"Only altering a mortal's record could effect such a permanent change. Records do not fall within her purview; and Friday remains uninterested in Saturday's machinations. I do not think it likely her threat will come to pass."

Arthur feels a lot better to hear that, except... "You're not interested in her machinations either, sir."

Thursday snarls, turning away. He stalks over to the window and looks out at the sprawl of the Citadel below. "That is correct," he says stiffly, his knuckles whitening with the force that he's using to grip the windowsill.

Arthur hesitates, but Thursday has not changed the subject or dismissed him so he dares to walk over and join Thursday at the window. They don't talk at all until the artificial sun begins to brighten the horizon, at which point Arthur excuses himself to prepare for the day.

Thursday's gone when Arthur re-emerges, dressed properly for his day's instruction.

* * *

Later that day, a sergeant major interrupts his instruction with Marshal Dusk.

"This is most irregular, sir, but... Monday's Tierce is here, demanding to see Second Lieutenant Penhaligon. She claims it's urgent. She's been put in a holding cell for now."

"I was unaware that a Tierce had been appointed in the Lower House," Dusk remarks.

"That would be Suzy Turquoise Blue, sir," Arthur says. He constantly has to remind himself that Marshal Dusk is not the same as the Dusk (Monday's, though Arthur has since appointed him Noon) who first helped him. He has the same manner and even his appearance resembles the current Monday's Noon, but they are not the same.

"I trust," Dusk says mildly, though his keen gaze belies the tone of voice, "that this visitation does not violate the agreement you have with Sir Thursday."

It's the second time one of the Marshals has referenced their agreement. Arthur wonders if Thursday did tell them the terms.

"It shouldn't," he says slowly. He doesn't even know how Suzy got here.

Dusk studies him for a moment, then turns to the sergeant major. "Take us to Monday's Tierce."

Arthur's mind whirls as they descend to the lower levels of the Citadel. His tour didn't include this area, and it's far deeper than Arthur's ever been before.

Why would Suzy be in the Great Maze at all? She said that she was going to try to volunteer, but it seems like that failed, if she's here as Monday's Tierce. Did something happen with Leaf? He had yet to receive any replies to his letters, although that was probably because the post was so slow.

"Artie!" Suzy curls her fingers around the bars of the holding cell and grins at him.

"That will be all, sergeant," Marshal Dusk says, dismissing the Denizen.

Arthur barely hears though. "Suzy! What are you doing here?"

"Leaf got the pocket," Suzy says vaguely, her gaze darting to Dusk.

Arthur's not particularly worried about Dusk relating the details of this encounter as long as they don't violate Thursday's terms. He's become aware that the Marshals do not agree with Thursday's furious (and sometimes irrational) command. Well, anyone who saw the bruises that faded in a matter of days only to be replaced soon after would know that.

"Is she ok?"

"She was when I left," Suzy hedges, which doesn't sound good. She keeps glancing at Dusk.

"It's fine, as long as you're not trying to help me subvert Sir Thursday's authority or something," Arthur says quickly.

"Correct," Marshal Dusk puts in. "I am merely here to ensure that Arthur does not break the terms of his agreement. Otherwise, I have no interest in this conversation."

"You must be Dusk," Suzy says. "Reckon Dusks are always the best Times, eh, Artie?"

"Uh, yeah," Arthur mumbles. Marshals Dawn and Noon aren't bad, exactly. "But what about Leaf?" he adds quickly.

"The Skinless Boy infected her with that mold," Suzy reports. "But she managed to get the pocket and pass it off to me. It was a bit of trouble getting back into the House... Ran into Saturday's Dusk, apparently. Guess 'e's the exception for Dusks. Anyway, it was lucky the Lieutenant Keeper stopped 'im from taking the pocket from me." She shrugs.

"You have the pocket?" Arthur repeats, frowning.

"Yeah, right here." Suzy fumbles in her pocket for a moment, then passes a small box through the bars. "I reckon the Maze has a connection to the Void, don't it? You can just toss it in."

Marshal Dusk coughs. "What is this 'pocket' that you refer to?"

"It used to be mine. It got ripped off my shirt when Monday was trying to get the Minute Hand back. I guess Saturday used it as a focus to make a Spirit-Eater..."

Dusk frowns. "That is a particularly high level Nithling, is it not?"

"Yeah. It assumed my identity when it passed through the Front Door, not long before I was drafted. Leaf - another mortal - was the only one who could go back to Earth and retrieve it. The only way we can destroy it is if we destroy the pocket," Arthur explains.

"That will be... difficult," Dusk says. "Even if you boarded a tile slated to move near the Boundary Fort, that area is overrun by Nithlings. Not to mention the Gates cannot be opened without the approval of Sir Thursday himself."

Arthur had already reached that conclusion himself.

"The Lieutenant Keeper mentioned something about that," Suzy says. "'e said the Nithling army was on the verge of conquest."

Dusk stiffens. "The situation is not quite so dire," he says, his tone colder than usual. For all that he seems to disagree with Thursday's stubborn declaration that they were not facing a siege, apparently he doesn't like outsiders doubting the Army's ability either.

"Just repeating 'is words, sir," Suzy says, raising her hands.

Dusk's expression softens somewhat. "The forces of the Nithling army are unprecedented in strength and number," he allows.

Suzy nods gravely, wisely deciding not to continue the conversation in that direction.

"How much time has passed on Earth, Suzy?" Arthur asks.

"A few hours; it's still Thursday," she says.

Arthur bites his lip. Ever since he became the Rightful Heir, time has moved slowly on Earth in comparison to 'true' House time. He guesses that that's a good thing.

"If your discussion is complete, I think Miss Turquoise Blue ought to be released so she can return to her duties within the Lower House," Dusk says. "It is nearly the hour of the evening meal, Second Lieutenant."

Arthur nods. "Right. Suzy, tell Dame Primus that I want her to do everything in her power to help Leaf until I figure out how to destroy the pocket."

"Yessir," Suzy says, pulling a passable salute. "Guess you're well on your way to becoming a general, then."

Arthur blinks, wondering what brought that comment on, but Dusk is already unlocking the barred door to Suzy's cell.

"What did you mean, before?" Arthur asks, as Marshal Dusk leads them back to the main part of the Citadel.

"You're all commanding," Suzy says, frowning.

"Well-" Arthur's taken aback. He hasn't noticed any specific changes, but looking back on the conversation he supposes he was a bit brusque. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be."

"Oh, come off it," Suzy huffs. "Just not used to you talking like that. It's not like you was talking down to me like Old Primey or something."

"Here is the elevator to the Lower House, Miss Turquoise Blue," Dusk says, halting before a bank of elevators.

"Right. Thanks, er-" She looks at the circle of five swords on his epaulettes, obviously searching for his title.

"Marshal Dusk," Arthur supplies, and Suzy quickly echoes. "Yes, thank you, sir," he adds.

Dusk inclines his head slightly. "I would advise against visiting the Great Maze again. As the Lieutenant Keeper suggested... this is not a good time for civilians," he says.

"Orright. I doubt Old Primey'd let me go anyway..." Suzy scowls at the thought as she boards the elevator. "I'll write if anything happens on Earth!" she adds, just before the doors slide shut.

* * *

When he's not being instructed by Marshals Dawn or Dusk, Arthur preoccupies himself with trying to figure out how to destroy the pocket. It would be easy if he could have just gotten Suzy to give it to Dame Primus. The Border Sea must still impinge on Nothing in numerous places, and the Far Reaches lies close to the Void; it would be a simple matter for someone to throw the pocket in from there.

Unfortunately, the Atlas said Arthur had to be the one to throw it in. Since he's stuck in the Great Maze and the Boundary Fort is his only means of accessing Nothing, he can't do anything. He doesn't want to ask Thursday about it either; although Arthur gets the impression that Thursday doesn't agree with a lot of the orders coming down from Saturday, he probably wouldn't be willing to go against her wishes either.

The evening's briefings in the operations room become tense, to the point that it feels as it did when Arthur first became an officer and suspicions were running high as to who was behind the leak.

A drill of ensorcelled Nothing has been spotted, and everyone seems to think its destination is the 500/500 position which, Arthur has been told, is the master position of the Maze. If it can't move, none of the tiles can. The onslaught of Nithlings has not receded, and if tectonic strategy fails, then it really could be defeat as the Lieutenant-Keeper thinks.

There are so many Nithlings in the Maze now that more and more of the tiles that transfer near the Citadel (or other fixed positions) are occupied. They begin to mass on the plain before GHQ, and Thursday cannot afford to move enough empty or Army-occupied tiles to allow the Army to break the siege. Arthur sometimes watches the Army repel attempts by the Nithling to gain the outer wall with one of the Marshals, though never any closer than the third bastion wall.

Thursday's temper, if possible, worsens. He spends the majority of his time in his private briefing room, poring over the scaled model of the Great Maze as he works out ways to keep the drill away from the master position. It's difficult, because some days there's no way of knowing which tile the drill is on; a group of soldiers might catch sight of it, and Thursday would be sure to send it far away from 500/500 that evening, but there was no way of knowing in which direction the drill was being taken the next day. He also has to keep the rest of the Maze moving, and make sure that none of the fixed positions fall.

The only people that see Thursday during the day are those who receive reports from troops in the field concerning the Nithlings' movements. After the evening meeting in the operations room, the Marshals (and Arthur) gather to report any other relevant facts that might have occurred that day; only rarely can Thursday be found sleeplessly pacing the corridor beyond his and Arthur's quarters.

* * *

"Sir, perhaps we could attempt negotiations-" Dusk begins one evening, repeating the question Arthur had asked him that afternoon while they watched yet another battle between the Nithlings and the Army. Arthur had reasoned that these New Nithlings were quite close to Denizens, so maybe it would be possible to parley with them.

Thursday looks up from the map, an angry sneer on his face. "Negotiate? With that _rabble_?" he demands, stalking towards Dusk.

Arthur freezes, his eyes darting to the other Times. Their faces are grim masks, and they do not meet Arthur's gaze.

"Yes, sir," Dusk says stolidly. "They have a capacity for reason-"

Thursday backhands him; Dusk's head snaps to the side. "Negotiation implies a weak position," he snarls.

Dusk's jaw clicks as he speaks, but if he feels any pain (which he must) he gives no sign of it. "That is not inaccurate-"

Thursday's fist catches Dusk in the temple; he staggers back, his eyes momentarily unfocussed as he falls to his knees. Blue blood streams down his cheek from a cut on his forehead. Thursday continues to advance, relentless.

The thing is, this isn't an uncommon scene, especially lately. Thursday had broken Dawn's arm a few days ago, and Noon's nose before that, and... The list seems endless. Not to mention the bruises that seem like permanent features on their otherwise flawless faces with how often Thursday renews them.

"Stop it!" Arthur cries, stepping in front of Dusk. He can't take it anymore. It's not like the Marshals raise invalid points; Thursday should try to see the merit in multiple perspectives rather than lashing out for perceived disrespect. And especially in this case, he can't help feeling responsible; Dusk was only repeating what Arthur himself had said.

He has a moment to register the stricken expressions of Dawn and Noon, Dusk's sharp intake of breath from behind him, before Thursday is upon him.

Arthur staggers, his vision blacking out as he takes the blow meant for Marshal Dusk. He doesn't even notice himself hitting the floor, the burst of pain radiating from the side of his face is so intense.

Obviously Thursday had been limiting his strength during his training, Arthur thinks, before he passes out.

* * *

"You have violated the terms of your agreement with Second Lieutenant Penhaligon," Noon says, the first to break the tense, stunned silence after Arthur falls.

"His neck is broken," Dusk reports, a strange note in his voice and something like mutiny in his eyes as he looks up at Thursday from where he is crouched beside Arthur's prone form.

"Silence," Thursday snarls. He can scarcely hear their voices over the furious hissing of the Will in his mind; he doesn't know if he's addressing his Marshals or the Will. Damn the Will, anyway, and damn his superiors' orders. Arthur would never have been drafted if not for them.

The Fourth Key is ill-suited to anything other than destruction, but lacking any qualified sorcerors in the vicinity, Thursday draws it anyway. "Heal the boy," he orders; the blade glows in response to his words.

There's a sickening snap as Arthur's neck rights itself, the redness of broken blood vessels receding. It is one thing to heal a body, quite another to recall life. There is no restoring life after death.

Silence reigns, none of the Denizens breathing until finally Arthur sucks in a lungful of air. He sits up abruptly, his eyes flying open and one hand rising in an aborted motion towards his cheek.

It is fortunate that Thursday relaxed his fist at the last second, slapping Arthur with his open hand rather than punching him as he had intended for Dusk. The damage would likely have been fatal if he hadn't.

Arthur looks first at Dusk, then at Thursday, then the other Marshals. He is obviously confused.

"Second Lieutenant, with me," Thursday says, drawing Arthur's attention back to him.

Arthur blinks, but scrambles to his feet with gratifying speed. "Sir." There's the slightest hint of a question in the word, but Thursday ignores it.

"You violated the terms of your agreement with Second Lieutenant Penhaligon, sir," Dawn says, echoing Noon's words as she steps between him and Arthur. Noon and Dusk close ranks beside her.

"Enough," Thursday says. The Will is quiescent for once. "I did no such thing. Penhaligon put himself in harm's way."

Dusk's eyes narrow and frustration tightens Noon's jaw as Dawn's hands clench into fists, but none of the Marshals can find fault in his words.

"Now step aside, unless you would add to his punishment."

The Marshals part before him, though it is obvious that they do not want to. Thursday feels annoyance surge; whether Arthur was attempting to do so or not, he has obviously swayed Thursday's Times' loyalties in his own favour.

* * *

The last thing that Arthur remembers is being struck by Thursday, and then he opens his eyes to find Dusk leaning over him.

If Arthur didn't know better, he'd think the expression on Thursday's face was one of relief when he looks at him, though it's quickly replaced by annoyance. Dawn and Noon seem relieved as well, but Arthur still doesn't know what's going on.

Nothing hurts, not the minor aches he'd been feeling from his sword fighting lessons with Dusk nor the crippling pain from where Thursday had hit him.

Arthur takes the opportunity to glance at the crocodile ring as he follows Thursday from the private briefing room. The gold has washed past the V of the fourth numeral, and is about three quarters of the way to the fifth segment.

His eyes widen; what could have caused his transformation into a Denizen to increase by so much-? He stumbles on the stairs, unable to believe his eyes. Scamandros had said it was probably not completely accurate but-

Arthur's not feeling any pain, but Thursday's slap hurt worse than when he had broken his leg. Could Thursday have broken his neck? Now that he thinks about it, he'd felt his head hit the floor; the rest of his body had been numb. Then Thursday must have healed him?

They emerge on the top floor of the Citadel. The only rooms here are Arthur's and Thursday's quarters, and Thursday's private study.

Arthur almost stops when he realizes their destination. He has only been in Thursday's study twice, once when he agreed to Thursday's terms and once when-

"Inside, Second Lieutenant."

Arthur bites his lip but doesn't otherwise hesitate to follow Thursday inside. "Yes, sir." He comes to attention two feet before the desk.

Thursday closes and locks the door behind him, then stalks back into view. Rather than settling in the chair behind the desk, he chooses to lean against the front of the desk with his arms crossed.

"You know why you are here."

"Yes, sir."

"And why is that?"

Arthur allows himself to take a breath and try to gather his scattered thoughts before answering. It might have been more than a month since he was last here, but the memories seem fresh enough to have been yesterday. The dread he's feeling makes it hard to think.

"I demonstrated disrespect for your authority, sir."

"Correct," Thursday says curtly. His eyes narrow. "You have also been subverting my authority, which is in direct violation of our agreement."

"I-" Arthur's eyes widen. "I didn't mean to, sir." He doesn't bother denying it, though; there's no way the Marshals' rallying around him can be mistaken as anything but.

"That much is obvious," Thursday says. He studies Arthur in silence for several moments, a neutral expression on his face. "Come here," he says at last.

Arthur gulps but does as he's told. His breath is coming faster, and his palms feel clammy.

"Remove your breeches and undergarments."

His hands are shaking so badly that he can't get the clasp of his belt undone. He doesn't dare look up at Thursday, whose unusual calm is somehow worse than the violent fury he had demonstrated earlier.

Thursday exhales, not quite a sigh. "Stop that," he says, batting Arthur's hands aside and swiftly pulling his belt loose. "Bend over the desk."

Arthur bites his lip, not daring to look up from the point on the desk that he's staring at. He can't. He just can't. "I-I can't, sir."

"You only make this worse for yourself," Thursday says, standing. He presses one hand between Arthur's shoulder blades, an unyielding push downward that he doesn't try to fight. "Widen your stance," he adds, when Arthur's chest is flush with the desk.

Arthur shudders but complies. He doesn't trust himself to speak. He doesn't know if he could manage it without his voice breaking.

Thursday pulls his pants and underwear down in one motion, exposing Arthur. "You will keep count aloud," he says, and that's all the warning Arthur gets before he spanks him.

"The count, Second Lieutenant," Thursday reminds him with a surprising amount of patience.

"One," he gasps out. It doesn't hurt as much as he remembers, but it's still painful.

Sometime after ten, when the initial sting of pain has burned into a steady, throbbing ache that only increases with each strike, Arthur realizes that he's lost count. He started crying around eight, much to his shame, but Thursday had made no remark about it.

"The count?" Thursday asks, pausing.

"I... I lost track, sir," Arthur says, his sobs rendering the words nearly incomprehensible.

"You stopped at twelve. We will continue from there." Thursday spanks him again.

"Thirteen," Arthur cries, his knees buckling. Thursday waits for him to straighten his legs before continuing. "Four... fourteen."

"Have you had enough, Second Lieutenant?" Thursday asks, after the twenty-fifth, by Arthur's count. It must be more than that, but Arthur does not know how many.

"Y-yes, sir," he sobs.

"This would not happen if you obeyed me," Thursday says.

Arthur weakly nods his head.

"The next time you disobey me, your punishment will be doubled," Thursday adds.

Arthur whimpers; fifty strikes is-

"Stand up. Fix your uniform. You may skip your lessons with Marshal Dawn tomorrow, but the rest of your schedule will continue without interruption."

Arthur realizes that Thursday had removed the hand at his back sometime earlier. He straightens, attempting to pull his breeches back up at the same time. His legs give out, and he stumbles.

Thursday catches his arm, but not before Arthur presses back against him. The rasp of Thursday's uniform against his enflamed skin is too much.

Arthur whimpers, arching away. His muscles scream in protest, and if Thursday had not kept his grasp on his arm he would have fallen. He sags, too exhausted and pained to remain upright.

"Can you stand, Second Lieutenant?" Thursday asks.

"No, sir," Arthur whispers.

Thursday wraps his arm under one of Arthur's and around his chest and pulls him upright as if he weighs nothing.

"I'm sorry, sir," Arthur mumbles, trying to get his feet under him.

"You should not have lost count," is all Thursday says as he pulls Arthur's pants back up. He whimpers weakly, trying to squirm away from the bursts of pain. "Hold still," Thursday scolds, fumbling.

Arthur jerks again as Thursday's hand brushes over his erection, a moan of an entirely different kind escaping him. He freezes, but Thursday either doesn't notice or deliberately does not react as he fixes Arthur's belt.

"Can you walk back to your quarters?"

Arthur's room is just down the hall, but his legs won't even hold his own weight, much less carry him anywhere.

"No, sir," he whispers, closing his eyes.

"I trust you have learned your lesson," Thursday says, pulling Arthur's arm over his shoulders and hooking his arm behind Arthur's knees.

"I doubt it, sir," Arthur mumbles honestly.

Thursday makes a strange sound that Arthur can't identify. "Even my fellow Morrow Days were more yielding than you are when they did their conscription."

"Probably 'cause it was before the Will was broken," Arthur sighs.

Thursday does not reply, and a few minutes later he deposits Arthur on the bed, with more care than Arthur would have expected.

"... Who gave you this?"

Arthur opens his eyes reluctantly. Thursday is holding the jar of ointment that Marshal Dusk had given him last time. "Marshal Dusk," Arthur says, reaching for it.

Thursday unscrews the lid and hands it to him. "I see." He turns away. "That will be all, Second Lieutenant."

Arthur waits until he hears the click of the door shutting, then somehow manages to get his pants and underwear off. He's still hard, but he ignores that in favour of applying the ointment to his protesting backside.

The pain fades to a faint, warm ache as Arthur spreads the ointment on his skin, until gradually he becomes aware that his erection is quite painful in comparison.

Arthur wraps a slick hand around it and strokes tentatively. He moans when that sends a flare of pleasurable warmth through him, then bites his lip. The door isn't soundproof, even if there is no one in the rooms on either side of him.

There had been many technical, awkward talks about how the body changed as it matured in recent years at school. Arthur had chalked his erection from the first time up as an anomaly, one of the random, uncontrollable erections that was bound to appear with the onset of puberty. But it hasn't happened since, until now. That can't be a coincidence

Did Arthur like the pain? It's humiliating, to be spanked like he is a small child. And yet the steady, painful warmth that the spankings bring is not unlike the pleasure that is making Arthur thrust desperately into his fist.

Maybe if he tries thinking about things that should be turning boys like him on. Marshal Dawn is the most attractive woman that Arthur's seen, and he would trust Suzy with his life, but he feels dissatisfied rather than spurred on by the thought of them.

There's pre-come leaking from the tip of his dick, mixing with his sweat and the residual ointment. It would probably be a lot less pleasant if Arthur had nothing to ease the way, he reflects. It's a good thing Marshal Dusk gave the ointment to him.

The thought of Marshal Dusk makes his hips jerk involuntarily, a sharp thrill of pleasure arcing through him. Dusk had offered to help him apply the ointment when he'd given it to Arthur. It's too bad that Arthur turned him down, but he's had Dusk check him over for injuries during sparring enough times to be able to imagine it.

Dusk's fingers are long and slender; dextrous. They're made to be curved around the hilt of a weapon, and he has the calluses to prove it. Yet despite the destruction that Dusk is made to wreak, he is exceedingly gentle. He would soothe Arthur's wounds and then, when Arthur is aching and hard, he'd wrap those callused fingers around Arthur and stroke until-

Arthur shakes, the build of pleasure rising to a crescendo as he comes. He lies weakly on the bed after, panting; there is a pleasant, heavy warmth in his limbs, and he only has the presence of mind to pull the blanket over himself before he falls asleep.

* * *

Marshal Dusk's voice is naturally low.

This wasn't a problem before, but now that Arthur's jerked off thinking about his voice (and his hands, and his face and-) it makes every conversation they have feel unbearably intimate. Arthur has to bite the inside of his cheek and think about other things to get his erections to subside. Dusk sometimes gives him strange, worried looks when Arthur stutters or makes stupid mistakes because he's too distracted to pay attention to what Dusk is telling him, but he doesn't seem to realize what's wrong with Arthur.

Denizens can't reproduce, but Arthur wonders if, like food, they could indulge in the more pleasurable aspects of it. The thought keeps cropping up at inappropriate times, like when Dusk is adjusting his posture because Arthur is too distracted to even stand properly, although he had it down before.

"Are you upset with Marshal Dusk?" Thursday asks one night. They're pacing the length of the hallway together, as Arthur has taken to joining him if he can't sleep and hears Thursday outside.

"What? No," Arthur says, blinking in confusion. A certain degree of informality is allowed at these times which is otherwise not afforded. Thursday's mood always seems better at this hour than during the day; though to be fair, he seems to be restraining himself from attacking the Marshals ever since Arthur got in his way.

Thursday studies him for several moments. "I see," is all he says on the matter.

"Why would you think that, sir?" Arthur asks.

Thursday pauses at the window and looks out, as he tends to do when he is thinking. "I overheard Dusk mentioning that you have seemed eager to escape his presence as soon as your day's lessons are over. And I have noticed that you stand nearer to Noon and Dawn during our evening briefings."

Arthur shifts guiltily, his cheeks heating. He supposes he has been essentially running away as soon as his lessons are finished, if only because he is usually achingly hard by the end of them. He can only distract himself for so long before his thoughts are drawn to the increasingly elaborate fantasies he comes up with at night. And when he has an excuse not to stay in close proximity to Dusk, of course he takes it; even if the Denizens don't know or realize what is going on, that doesn't mean they won't ever figure it out.

"I'm not upset with him," Arthur repeats, glad that the moon is close enough to new that not much light is shining through the window. Hopefully Thursday won't notice his blush.

"Yet your cheeks are red," Thursday says, dashing Arthur's hopes. "If not from anger, then-"

Arthur fakes a rather unconvincing yawn. "I think I'll try to get some rest before my lessons with Marshal Dawn tomorrow, sir," he says quickly.

"By all means," Thursday says; he's back to staring out the window when Arthur glances up at him, a pensive expression on his face.

* * *

Arthur tries to behave more casually around Dusk after that. The thought of having to explain his unfortunate erections to any of the Marshals - or worse, Thursday - is enough to make them go away. He doesn't have any possible excuse if Dusk - or any of the others - decides to ask him. It was awkward and embarrassing enough to almost have the conversation with Thursday; he can't even imagine the levels of humiliation that would be reached if he actually had to follow through.

Thankfully, no one else mentions it, and Arthur's lessons conclude with little fanfare.

Thursday and the Marshals have come up with a plan to destroy the Nothing Spike, and the preparations for it are in full swing.

It is to be Arthur's first action in the field; Sir Thursday himself is leading the attack. This will be the first time in the Army's history that the commander takes the field against an enemy.

But with the number of Nithlings swarming the Maze nearing a million, they cannot afford to wait. The Boundary Fort needs to be retaken, as it has become something of a base of operations for the Nithlings, but to do that Thursday needs to have free movement of the tiles. There is too much of a risk of the Nothing Spike fixing the master position, thereby disrupting tectonic strategy completely.

* * *

"What's that noise?" Arthur asks, looking around for the source of high-pitched whine.

"Tile shift," Noon says. He's sporting a fresh black eye, and the motions of his left arm seem stiff, but Arthur doesn't get the chance to ask him about it because the Citadel abruptly disappears.

A mountain range that Arthur knows to be five miles long faces the ridge that they are occupying; it's two miles away. A tile packed with Nithlings sits at the foot of the mountains, right in the centre. The range extends for two miles beyond them. The other five tiles bordering them are featureless plain, useless for defense. The seven tiles directly beyond those are full of Army Denizens.

"That's a lot of Nithlings," Arthur says. The entire square mile seems packed with Nithlings, who have already assumed defensive positions around the Nothing Spike. Clearly they intend to go down fighting. Well, what other choice do they have?

Even if they tried to flee over the mountain, they would have to leave the Nothing Spike behind.

"Quiet," Thursday orders, frowning down at him.

Realizing his mistake, Arthur flushes. Luckily, it seems like the soldiers around him didn't hear. It's bad for morale for officers to show doubt; that's one of the first lessons Thursday taught him.

Thursday stalks away, the staff officers parting around him. He starts barking orders, which are repeated at several times the volume by the NCOs.

If they are intimidated by the mass of Nithlings, the soldiers give no sign as they move to follow the directions.

Arthur looks back at Marshal Noon; the other two Marshals are back at the Citadel, Dawn in charge with Thursday and Noon absent. "Did something happen, sir?" Arthur whispers, confident that the staff officers surrounding them won't be able to hear him over the bellowing of the NCOs. Thursday has gone ahead to inspect the frontline.

Noon looks at him blankly. "Pardon?"

Arthur points to his right eye.

"Ah, yes," Noon murmurs, looking shifty. His gaze sweeps the soldiers around them. "Sir Thursday and I had a disagreement."

Arthur frowns. Thursday's mood had improved considerably when the plan to destroy the Nothing Spike was created, or so he had thought. "What about, sir? If you don't mind me asking," he adds quickly.

"Sir Thursday wished to have you at his side when he led the charge," Noon says, his voice nearly inaudible. "I thought it prudent that one as untested as yourself - not that you are not making fine progress in your months with the Army - not see direct action unless absolutely necessary. Obviously, Sir Thursday disagreed. I have been assigned your personal guard, and Sir Thursday has assumed command of all the forces here."

Arthur bites his lip. "Oh," he mumbles. "Sorry."

"It's not your fault," Noon says calmly. "Now, can you see the battlefield?"

Their ridge overlooks it, but within the crowd as he is, Arthur can only see the rise of the mountains. It's probably fine for Noon, who is the tallest Denizen there.

"Uh, no, sir."

Noon frowns. "Step aside," he says sharply. The Denizens part before him, and Noon beckons Arthur to follow him as he stalks to the edge of the ridge. "Sir Thursday wishes for you to observe the battle," he explains. "If you have any questions, feel free to ask."

It's one thing to observe the battle from behind at least two lines of defense as he has back at the Citadel. It's another to be practically on top of the field. Arthur knows that he's gaping, but he can't stop himself.

As he watches, the ranks of Denizens charge as one, closing in on the Nithlings' exposed sides. Although he isn't even a part of the advancing force, Arthur still shivers at the almost visible shockwave of the opposing forces colliding. This close, without anything to dampen them, the sounds of battle are almost deafening.

"They are skilled," Noon says grudgingly, the faint crease of his brows the only indication of his mood. He must have lots of practice keeping his own thoughts hidden, so as not to affect morale. Then, more quietly, "I wonder where their commander is."

The mysterious commander. The only thing they know for sure is that they must be a skilled sorceror; who else could evade the enchantments on the controls for the Gates and the Ephemeris, as well as conjure hundreds of thousands of New Nithlings?

"Isn't it better if they're not here?" Arthur asks, also keeping his voice down. The cries of Nithling and Denizen alike and the clashing of weapons should disguise their conversation.

"Perhaps. But that would beg the question, what is more important to their campaign than disabling the Maze?"

Arthur shudders. He suddenly feels worried about Dawn and Dusk, back at the Citadel. They are more than capable commanders, but as Thursday had said: he was no sorceror. Dr. Scamandros had been an Army sorceror, but he was just doing his hundred years... As far as Arthur knows, there are no fulltime sorcerors in the Army.

"Maybe their commander is just a really strong Nithling," Arthur says. "We just can't tell him apart from the regular soldiers." But even as he says it, it has the ring of false hope.

"Perhaps," Noon repeats, which isn't very encouraging.

The Nithlings are slowly but steadily losing ground, though not without casualties on both sides. Then, Arthur sees a pale yellow figure emerge seemingly out of thin air, in the small open space around the Nothing Spike.

"Can you see who that is?" Arthur asks, pointing.

Noon's eyes narrow, and he produces a perspective glass. "The officers are deferring to him," he says. "He is wearing a strange metal mask; I do not recognize him."

"Can I look?"

"Captain," Noon says, gesturing at the officer nearest them. The captain hands Arthur his perspective glass.

Arthur squints his left eye shut and looks through it with his right. The Nithling commander's skin is completely concealed by the pale yellow greatcoat he's wearing. His face is, as Noon had said, behind a weird metal mask, and the rest of his head is obscured by a Napoleon-style hat.

He produces a small wooden object - surely too small to be any sort of weapon - and places it to his lips.

Noon grunts, dropping his perspective glass as he claps his hands over his ears, curling over in pain. The officers surrounding them are not so reserved; the higher officers shout in pain while those lower in precedence simply crumple to the ground, unconscious.

"What is it?" Arthur says, looking at Noon in astonishment. His eyes are nearly shut, and he is obviously pained. "I can't hear anything!"

"Must... be the... Piper," Noon grits out; most of the officers around them have passed out, blue blood leaking out of their ears.

Arthur casts a frantic glance over the field. The Nithlings seem to be just as affected as the Denizens, leaving only the strongest conscious. The colonels and Thursday are the only ones still standing on the battlefield, but even as Arthur watches, the colonels fall as well.

"What do I do?" Arthur says, looking back at Noon. Blood is leaking past the Denizen's hands, and Arthur swallows hard to stop the bile rising in his throat.

"Help Sir Thursday," Noon gasps, sagging against him. Arthur stumbles, then falls as Noon's full weight collapses on top of him.

"Marshal? Noon?" Arthur struggles out from underneath him, dismayed to find that he is the only one left on the ridge still conscious.

Sir Thursday is shouting, though his words are so twisted with rage that Arthur can't make them out. He fumbles for the perspective glass; only the Piper is still standing on the Nithlings' side, and Thursday looks like he was not affected by whatever tune the Piper was playing.

Arthur swallows hard, trying to fight down the sudden fear that surges through him. He's been in dangerous situations before. Even if Thursday has lost it - if the furious attacks he's launching at the Piper are any indication - he will still honour their agreement. And the Piper only has his pipe-

Which he uses to calmly block the downward slash of the Fourth Key.

Maybe it's more powerful than it looks. What can Arthur do, in that case? He just has the needle sharp rapier that Noon had deemed his most effective weapon, and although his skill has greatly increased under Dusk's tutelage, he wouldn't last for a minute against Thursday. The Piper is calmly defending, although he seems unable to attack, but that still probably means that Arthur would be seriously overmatched...

Something's digging uncomfortably into his side. Arthur fumbles with the uniform coat and pulls out the plastic box with the pocket. His eyes widen; he'd nearly forgotten about it. He looks at the Nothing Spike, innocently sitting in the wagon behind the Piper and Thursday. The Piper is falling back steadily, drawing Thursday closer to the Spike.

Arthur scrambles down the ridge, heart pounding. The one good thing about the House is that his asthma is a non-issue. With the fitness regimen that Noon had told him to keep, Arthur can easily sprint the mile to edge of the plain tile that borders the Nothing Spike. He slows, careful to avoid the fallen soldiers and weapons.

The concentration of Nithlings makes it difficult to climb over them; he tries not to think about it as he steps on hands or other limbs, unable to avoid it. The majority of them are just unconscious.

Arthur can still hear the clashing and shouting from Thursday, so he hurries on, whispering silent apologies in his mind. They might be enemies, but these Nithlings are a lot closer to Denizens than the mad creatures he'd seen in the Lower House.

The two combatants are nearing the foot of the mountain, the wagon carrying the Nothing Spike behind them. Apart from that nerve-wracking experience when he was reinforcing the failing buttress of the Far Reaches, Arthur has never been so close to this much Nothing.

The Piper is swift, his coat flaring around his legs as he dodges Thursday's barrage of attacks seemingly without effort. He has placed the pipe to his lips again, and this time the melody he plays is audible to Arthur.

It doesn't seem to do anything, and Thursday's attacks continue without faltering. Arthur tightens his grip on the pocket but just as he's about to throw it at the Spike, a Nithling superior officer jumps up, wielding a crackling spear.

Arthur's eyes widen and he draws his rapier, barely getting it up in time to block the Nithling's strike. Pain shoots up his arm as the electricity crackles up his blade, and Arthur stumbles back with an undignified yelp, barely keeping his grip on his weapon.

"I-I'm a Piper's Child," Arthur cries, thinking quickly. He cringes away when the Nithling raises his spear again, and it's only partly an act. With one strike, Arthur knows that he is overmatched in strength. He is physically weaker, and his rapier cannot withstand the electrified spear.

The Nithling hesitates, and Arthur takes the opportunity to toss his rapier aside. But not too far; he can still hopefully dive and get it if he needs to.

"Please, sir-" Arthur flicks his eyes over the surrounding Nithlings, but none of them have so much as stirred. The Nithling before him is very tall, and there are twin trails of drying blood down the sides of his head; likely he was the only one able to withstand whatever the Piper had done with his pipe earlier.

"I won't harm you, Lieutenant," the Nithling says, his voice surprisingly normal. But Arthur doesn't know why he's surprised; of course Nithlings as close to Denizens as the New Nithlings would have natural-sounding voices.

"Th-thank you, sir-"

Arthur's words fade as the Nothing Spike suddenly rises, without any visible aid. He glances at the Nithling, but he seems as thrown by this turn of events as Arthur.

The Spike's movement is not smooth, and it seems to shift in time with the notes of the Piper's melody.

That must be how he's lifting it. But what's the point? They're in a region many miles from any of the fixed positions, or the master position. Unless the Piper intends to drop it on the prone forces of the Army, or-

Or Thursday, whose back is to the hovering Spike. Maybe the Piper's musical sorcery doesn't affect Thursday, but Arthur would bet being stabbed by a giant Spike of Nothing would do some damage.

He darts forward, ducking beneath the outstretched arm of the Nithlings, and hurls the pocket with all his might. He watches with bated breath as it arcs through the air, then strikes the side and slides in like a hot knife through butter.

At first, nothing happens, then the Spike shudders, collapsing in on itself without a sound. It looks a bit like the animations of a black hole that Arthur's seen in science class. The Nothing shrivels to a tiny pinprick, then that too disappears.

Arthur's thrown back by the concussion of force this releases, knocked straight off his feet and sent slamming into the side of the wagon. His breath leaves him in a gasp, pain bursting up from his back. He can't feel his legs, and the sensation is terrifying, worse than when Thursday broke his neck, because Arthur is aware of what has happened and can't do anything about it.

He bites his lip and looks around, although it only sends more jags of pain spiking up his back.

Sir Thursday is pulling himself to his feet; the Piper is nowhere to be seen. Then the Nithling staggers into view, obviously furious. The spear in his hand crackles menacingly. No amount of improvisation is going to get Arthur out of this one.

"Thursday!" Arthur screams hoarsely, his voice cracking with fear and pain.

The Trustee turns and actually _throws_ the massive sword Key at the advancing Nithling. If Arthur's vision wasn't fading in and out, he wouldn't have known what impressed him more: that Thursday managed the feat one-handed, or that the sword actually hit its target.

The Nithling turns, raising the spear to defend itself. The instant the Fourth Key touches the other weapon, it and the Nithling holding it simply collapses into dust. The sword embeds itself in the ground a mere foot away.

Arthur winces as a shrill, piercing note rends the air; Thursday shouts in pain, then falls silent.

_Arthur, I am bound to the Key. Touch the Key and you can claim it_, a sibilant voice sounds in his head. The Will.

"You are not mine," a light, melodious voice remarks aloud at nearly the same time; it must be the Piper.

Arthur shivers and starts to drag himself towards the Key. His legs are deadweight and the pain is nearly overwhelming, but he's pushed through not being able to breathe before. Forcing himself to move through the pain is nothing compared to that.

He ignores the slow, sedate footfalls that approach him. His entire focus has narrowed to the Key embedded in the soil.

"Though you have done me a service," the Piper continues idly. "I can fashion another Spike; Thursday is not so replaceable."

Arthur edges closer, dragging himself forward through sheer stubbornness. Thursday can't be dead. What did the Piper do, bludgeon him to death with that stupid pipe? Impossible.

"I will reward you by giving you a swift death. I will even play at your funeral."

Arthur chokes and coughs, nearly inhaling a mouthful of dirt, when one of the Piper's boots presses against the centre of his back, grinding him into the dust.

"Who _are_ you?" the Piper muses. "Or rather, what? Some experiment of Saturday's, perhaps...?"

"I, Arthur Penhaligon, anointed... Heir to the Kingdom," Arthur mumbles, the tip of his middle finger brushing the blade, "c-claim this Key and with it Mastery of the Great Maze."

"What was that?" the Piper says sharply. The boot presses down, right where Arthur's back had smashed into the wagon. He nearly blacks out, but forces onward. It's almost as if the words are being dragged out of him.

"I claim it by blood and bone and contest, out of truth, in testament and against all trouble!"

* * *

The Piper no longer has physical eyes with which to perceive things, so they cannot widen when he hears the boy's spine crack back into place beneath his boot. A shudder racks the boy's body, and then the Fourth Key is in his hand.

Lord Arthur moves with impossible speed, knocking the Piper's leg aside and gaining his feet in one smooth motion.

The Piper raises his pipe, but he cannot bring himself to imagine the marble steps of the Improbable Stair to escape. He is transfixed by the cold blue eyes boring through the eyelets of his mask.

"Begone," Lord Arthur says.

The Piper realizes that he's been run through by the Key, which has transformed itself into a rapier, though he has no memory of it happening.

Then he has no memory at all.

* * *

Arthur shudders, trembling with the heady rush of _power_ radiating from the Key in his hand as it shrinks from a rapier to a more wieldy marshal's baton. It feels right, like it is an extension of his arm; a part of his body.

The Piper has disappeared; all that remains is the pale yellow greatcoat heaped on the ground, and the dull steel mask atop it. There had been little resistance when Arthur ran him through; was it because Arthur's strength was augmented by the Key, or because there was nothing there at all-?

A pained groan interrupts his thoughts.

_Leave that traitor to die_, the Will hisses. The snake that had adorned the hilt of Thursday's massive sword, now Arthur's baton, slithers up his hand and coils around his forearm.

"No," Arthur says aloud. His stride feels strange, but also natural. His perspective is slightly changed as well, like he's seeing things from a few inches higher.

_You are the Rightful Heir_, the Will hisses. _He must face judgement for his crimes_.

"Which are what? Saving my life?" Arthur says, scowling down at the serpent.

_Transgressions against the Architect Herself! Abuse of authority! Criminal neglect!_

"Shut up," Arthur orders, crouching beside Thursday. A dagger with a grain of ensorcelled Nothing encased in the pommel protrudes from his chest. Jagged black lines radiate out from it, visibly climbing up Thursday's neck as Arthur watches.

Arthur plucks the dagger out, grimacing at the spray of blue blood that ensues, and tosses it aside. "Be healed," he orders. The flow of blood slows, then stops; unblemished skin can be seen beneath the tear in Thursday's uniform. But the corruption wrought by the Nothing continues unchecked.

"Noth-" Thursday's voice cracks, his vocal cords damaged by the spreading Nothing. His eyes seem resigned.

Arthur frowns. "Be healed!" he repeats, tightening his fingers around the baton. The gold leaf is sharper than it looks, but he ignores the bite of pain. Still, there is no change.

"Return the Nothing to the Void and restore Sir Thursday to what he was!" Lord Arthur declares.

The baton glows, warming to a temperature that borders on blistering; it is brighter than the full moon hanging in the sky.

Thursday's pained, raspy breathing eases. "Lord Arthur," he says.

"Thursday," Arthur says, something in his chest easing to hear Thursday's voice.

"I am restored," Thursday says, reverent.

"Yes," Arthur agrees, standing. A moment later, Thursday joins him. Arthur no longer has to crane his neck quite so far back to look in his face. Thursday has shrunk, but Arthur has also grown.

Thursday comes to attention. "Thank you, sir."

That is as it should be, but some part of Arthur feels uncomfortable to have Thursday deferring to him. He adjusts his grip on the baton, and the crocodile ring clinks against one of the gold leaves.

"At ease," Arthur says, raising his hand to study the ring. The portion facing him is completely golden. The gold has moved all the way to the middle of the V of the fifth numeral. Half a section more, and Arthur's transformation into a Denizen will be irreversible.

"How did you destroy the Nothing Spike?" Thursday asks.

Arthur blinks, his hand dropping back to his side. The Nothing Spike-? "I threw a pocket into it."

"The pocket that was the Spirit-Eater's origin, sir?"

"... Yes." That's right. The Spirit-Eater. The Nithling created by Saturday that assumed his identity on Earth. How could Arthur have forgotten that? He frowns.

"Thursday, I want you to retain command of the Army," Arthur says.

Thursday blinks, the only sign of his confusion. "You are the commander of the Army now, sir."

"But I don't want to be," Arthur says. "I only know what you and the Marshals have taught me in the past two months. I don't know how to run the Army."

"The Marshals would aid you," Thursday says.

"I don't want to be the commander," Arthur repeats. "I have to get the rest of the Keys, and then I can go home. I'll make you Regent of the Great Maze, like Dame Primus for the other Demesnes."

"Sir, I am unfit," Thursday begins.

"I must protest!" the Will bursts out at the same time, its coils tightening around Arthur's forearm. Thursday actually flinches to hear its voice.

"Explain. Thursday first," Arthur adds, scowling.

"I am unfit for command," Thursday repeats. "My actions have proven as much. You have witnessed how I treated the Marshals... You have firsthand experience of my gross misuse of authority."

"That wasn't your fault," Arthur says. "I'm not saying you should just be forgiven for your transgressions, but I must say, of all the Demesnes I have visited so far, yours is in the best condition. It continues to serve its function, unlike the Lower House, the Far Reaches and the Border Sea."

"This latest campaign nearly ruined us."

"Through no fault of your own. The orders for the changes came down from Saturday. I _know_ you didn't want to let this happen. And the same can be said, I think, for you helping the other Trustees break the Will," Arthur counters.

"You are correct for the most part," Thursday says slowly, his gaze shifting to some point beside Arthur's head. "I would not have helped the other Morrow Days break the Will if I had not been ordered to do so. But I did not disagree with that order, either."

Arthur frowns. That is an unexpected admission.

"That is why he is unfit!" the Will snaps. "He betrayed the Architect. He will do the same to you, Arthur!"

Thursday glances briefly at the snake. "Ours was not the first betrayal," he says.

"The Architect is your creator. It is not for you to decide what is and is not betrayal! Arthur, you must rouse the senior officers so a court can be convened-"

Arthur pinches the snake's mouth closed with two fingers. "Thursday. Will you betray me?"

"No, sir!"

The Will manages to pry its head free. "He is not to be trusted! He is violent and unstable."

"He was," Arthur says. "And yet he still saved my life. Twice."

"The first time was healing the neck that he broke in the first place!"

"Thursday said that you never let him rest. Is that true?"

"I sought to escape to rejoin the other Parts of the Will," the snake hisses. "I found that his concentration wavered when he was incited to fury. It is only natural to exploit such a weakness!"

"So you're the reason he was angry enough to beat the Marshals all the time."

"His temper held out for many years. It is only within the past millennium that he began to strike his Times." The Will sounds proud that it had managed to wear Thursday down to that.

Arthur's frown deepens. "You will not speak to him again. Or communicate telepathically, or any other form of communication, for that matter!" he adds, remembering Dr. Scamandros' words back at the Dayroom. The Will - Dame Primus - requires specificity; somehow Arthur gets the feeling that this is especially true for the Fourth Part.

"Yes, Lord Arthur," the snake says.

"You will not communicate with anyone other than me, unless I give you permission."

"Yes, Lord Arthur," the Will repeats sulkily, coiling more tightly around his forearm.

"Good," Arthur says shortly, turning his attention back to Thursday. The Denizen has a strange expression on his face, but he quickly hides it. "Now, I think we have established that you will not be falling back on the habits forced upon you these past millennia."

"No, sir," Thursday agrees.

"Very good. Then I, Arthur, Rightful Heir to the House, appoint Thursday Regent of the Great Maze."

It's actually a struggle to get his fingers to release the baton, but Arthur manages it.

* * *

It is strange. Thursday does not know how to characterize what he feels. Denizens do not feel in the same way that mortals do, but that does not mean they are unfeeling. The bone deep anger that he carried with him for ten millennia is evidence of that.

For the first time, the Will is silent. There is nothing in his mind but his own thoughts. There is no low simmering of anger, simply waiting to be fanned into flames.

Thursday does not recall ever feeling at peace.

"The Key was a baton when it first came to me," Thursday says, looking up from the ivory baton. "I cannot recall when it began to remain in the form of a blade."

Arthur's appearance is altered; he is more than five and half feet tall now, and his hair is more blond than brown. He also seems to have matured; no longer does he resemble a child.

Thursday feels some guilt for that. Although he had been unaware of Arthur's wish to remain mortal the first time he healed him, there is no excuse for the second time. Granted, Arthur would have died had Thursday not used the Key to heal his neck, but Thursday should not have broken his neck in the first place; he could have stopped, if he'd wanted to.

"I will banish the Nithlings to the Void, and rouse our soldiers," Thursday says.

"You are in command," Arthur agrees, though the way his gaze lingers on the baton belies his words.

Thursday raises the Key. It grows into the same massive sword as before. "Return the Nithlings to the Void," he commands.

"Why didn't you do that before?" Arthur asks.

"Because a portion of the Key's power was constantly devoted to binding the Will," Thursday explains.

Arthur blinks. "I see." He looks down briefly at the Will, which remains quiet and still, coiled around his arm.

Thursday wonders if it will remain that way. Arthur might be the Rightful Heir, but he does not have any real authority over the Will.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings** (for this chapter): Violence, minor character death. Please note, this fic will eventually be Arthur/Thursday. (Not while Arthur is underage.)

Further notes: a lot of the events in this part mirror canon pretty closely. Some parts have also been transcribed with little to no changes from _Lady Friday_ - specifically, the message from Lady Friday (modified slightly to reflect the Piper's demise) and the letter the Raised Rat steals from Superior Saturday (copied directly).

* * *

"Sir Thursday is changed," Dusk remarks quietly, his voice pitched lower than usual so it does not carry to their master and Arthur, who are conferring beside the map of the Great Maze.

"As is the Second Lieutenant," Dawn agrees in a similar tone.

They turn to look at Noon, who can only shrug. "I do not know what happened."

"You were in charge of Penhaligon's guard," Dawn says.

"The Piper incapacitated us," Noon admits, loathe as he is to do so. "Sir Thursday and Arthur were the only ones unaffected. When I regained consciousness, the change had already occurred."

The three Marshals are silent, considering this.

"The Key is a baton," Dawn observes quietly. "And Sir Thursday actually smiled a few moments ago."

"Arthur's presence was changing Sir Thursday," Dusk muses. "But this goes beyond that."

"'Arthur'?" Noon echoes, smirking.

Dawn laughs softly; while Dusk does not blush, what little skin that Noon can see exposed beneath Dusk's collar is red with embarrassment.

"Perhaps," Dawn murmurs, still smiling, "you could ask the Second Lieutenant what happened. Since the two of you are so close."

"Perhaps I will," Dusk says, with as much dignity as he can muster. "And I will not tell either of you what he says."

"What who says?" Thursday asks. His three Times startle, automatically standing at attention. They had not noticed him and Arthur approaching.

"I was going to ask Second Lieutenant Penhaligon how the battle went, sir," Dusk says promptly.

Thursday glances at Arthur, which is definitely strange. It is strange to see their master defer to anyone, especially without any reluctance. Many of the orders that came down from Superior Saturday did not sit well with him, and while he did not express it among the other officers, Noon and the other Marshals were well aware of his opinion on the matter.

"I don't see any point in hiding it, sir," Arthur says, not so much as batting an eyelash; however, he and Thursday are both behaving differently, so perhaps that shouldn't come as a surprise. "But the sooner we determine the quantities of Nothing-powder and Not-Horses required to restock the Army, the sooner I can order Dame Primus to supply them."

Noon can't help exchanging a bewildered look with Dawn and Dusk; while it had crossed his mind many times to ask about acquiring Not-Horses and Nothing-powder from the Far Reaches, he hadn't thought Arthur would be amenable. After all, he is here against his will.

With the latest campaign, their stocks have been depleted considerably - Nothing-powder in particular; Not-Horses are sturdy beasts, able to withstand damage that even the Army Denizens could not.

"Though," Arthur adds, "I don't know how soon they'll get here. She's still filling the Pit, and reining the Border Sea in."

"The Border Sea impinges on Nothing?" Thursday asks.

"Yeah; in thirty-seven thousand, four hundred and something places."

Silence reigns for a moment upon hearing this news. Noon had been aware that things in the House were not as they should be - that much was obvious to anyone - and especially so for the Border Sea, after Thursday and the other Trustees sealed Wednesday's power... But to hear the scale of it is shocking.

"The number should not matter," Thursday says abruptly. "The Third Key should be able to draw the Sea back from Nothing all at once."

Arthur does look surprised to hear that. "Dame Primus told me each one had to be done individually. If it can be done all at once then why didn't Wednesday just do that...?"

"For the same reason I did not eliminate the Nithlings before," Thursday says. "A portion of the Key's power was devoted to other tasks. In Wednesday's case, maintaining her form and controlling her appetite. As such, I imagine each instance where the Sea impinged on Nothing would have to be dealt with individually, as the Third Key's full power could not be brought to bear."

Arthur frowns. "Well... I'll ask Dame Primus about it when I call her." He turns back to the Marshals. "So, how much Nothing-powder and how many Not-Horses do you want?"

* * *

Talking with Dame Primus is as frustrating as always. She is just as adamant as Part Four that Thursday not be made Regent of the Great Maze, but Arthur doesn't back down.

At any rate, she can't argue when Arthur points out, coldly, that she must be busy supervising the filling in of the Pit and drawing the Border Sea back within its proper bounds. Asking her to oversee the Great Maze as well would be too much.

"That voice is familiar," Thursday remarks, after Arthur hangs up the receiver and Dame Primus' imperious voice has faded from the room.

Captain Drury salutes and leaves the private briefings room, taking the telephone with him; apart from him, only the Marshals are present.

"Really?" Arthur asks, pressing the tips of his first two fingers against his left temple, where he can feel the beginnings of a headache setting in.

"Yes, though I can't place it..." Thursday frowns.

"She _is_ the embodiment of Parts One to Three of the Will," Arthur points out, glancing at the Will coiled around his wrist. "And you heard Part Four's voice often enough."

"Perhaps," Thursday says, his mouth twisted in bitter remembrance when Arthur looks back up.

Before Arthur can pursue the matter further, Thursday suddenly shoves him aside, drawing the Fourth Key. The Marshals follow suit, immediately taking up positions in front of him.

"I'm a messenger!" a woman shouts. "An emissary from Lady Friday!"

Arthur draws his rapier as well, just in case. He peers around Thursday's arm.

Dusk has his blade at her throat, and Dawn is calmly searching her... apron?

The intruder is wearing a long, flowing silver robe, and a sturdy apron entirely at odds with the beautiful garment. She's tall, suggesting high precedence, and beautiful. In one hand, she has some sort of metal branch.

"It's an olive branch!" the woman says. "I'm just a messenger!"

"Clear, sir," Dawn says, stepping back. She keeps her blade pointed at the other woman though.

"Who are you?" Thursday demands.

Her gaze darts from Thursday, to the Marshals, then Arthur, who has stepped up beside Thursday. "Emelena Folio Gatherer, Second Grade, 10,218th in precedence within the House, uh, sir. Lady Friday sent me through her mirror."

Thursday scowls. "Dusk, have all the mirrors and other suitable reflective surfaces within the Citadel covered or removed at once."

"Yes, sir," Dusk says. He pulls down a particularly reflective shield from the wall and turns it around, then leaves the room.

"Friday's mirror?" Arthur repeats.

"I believe the Fifth Key takes the form of a mirror," Noon says in an undertone. "I have heard that it can be used in a manner similar to the Seven Dials, in that the user may send someone to another place. However, the Fifth Key is restricted by using any mirror or suitable reflective surface as the point of egress, so long as the user has visited the place in question."

"So Friday's been here before?" Arthur asks.

Noon shrugs.

"What is the message?" Thursday asks.

"It's for Lord Arthur," Emelena says, eyeing the blade Dawn has levelled at her with obvious unease.

"Ok, what is it?" Arthur asks.

She glances at him. "Am I correct in assuming that I address Lord Arthur?"

"Yes," Arthur says, impatiently.

Emelena straightens, clasping her hands together. She stares off at some point, like a soldier at attention.

**_greetings lord arthur from lady friday trustee of the architect and mistress of the middle house i greet you through my mouthpiece who is to deliver my words exactly as i have spoken them knowing full well that you seek the fifth key and will stop at nothing to get it as saturday will likewise do_**

Here she pauses to take a breath, the only faltering of her words; she's speaking a little too fast and doesn't emphasize punctuation, but Arthur can keep up anyway.

**_and in the interest of a quiet life pursuing my own researches into aspects of mortality i have decided to abdicate as mistress of the middle house and leave the key for whomsoever might find it and wield it as he or she sees fit_**

**_i ask only that i be left alone in my sanctuary which lies outside the house in the secondary realms with such servants as who choose to join me there my messenger has gone to saturday bearing this same offer_**

**_whoever of you two can find and take the key from where it lies within my scriptorium in the middle house is welcome to it the key shall accept you or saturday the fifth part of the will i also leave in the middle house and i take no further responsibility for its incarceration but shall not release it either lest it take the key itself_**

**_my abdication shall take place upon the moment both of you have read this message and at that moment this act shall be recorded on the metal tablet my messenger also bears_**

Emelena stops, takes a deep breath, and bows. "I have the tablet in an envelope here, Lord Arthur," she says, pulling it out of one of the apron's pockets.

"Don't-" Thursday says, grabbing his arm just as Arthur takes the tablet. The envelope shreds into a spray of confetti, and Arthur has time to register the small, round metal plate that he's holding before everything else abruptly vanishes.

Thursday's grip on his arm tightens painfully as a sudden rush of freezing air assaults them, and Arthur's legs buckle when they hit the ground.

* * *

"This is the Flat of the Middle House," Thursday says, his breathing misting in the cold air. He pulls Arthur to his feet, then finally releases his arm.

Arthur shivers, a bit surprised by the loss of warmth. He starts rubbing his upper arms; his uniform isn't made for cold climates. "How can you tell?" he asks, looking around. He can only see snow and, in the far distance, a building. More precisely, several smoking chimneys that he assumes are attached to a building.

"We are still within the House. I don't see any reason why Friday would supply a Transfer Plate destined for any Demesne but her own. I have also heard that the weather is broken in the Flat, which is the lowest level of the thrice-terraced Middle House, and that it has been winter for many centuries," Thursday explains.

"I'm guessing the Scriptorium or whatever isn't nearby," Arthur says, bitterly.

"I believe it is located at the peak of the Middle House."

"So, the Middle House is a mountain?" Arthur can see a rising slope in the distance, beyond the chimneys.

"Correct."

Arthur sighs. "Can we take the Improbable Stair there?"

"We could," Thursday agrees. "Is that what you want, Lord Arthur?"

"Just Arthur, please," he says, wearily. He hasn't slept at all since defeating the Piper. The evening after, their tile had returned to the Citadel as planned, and Thursday had been busy organizing the Army for cleanup efforts and to retake the Boundary Fort. Arthur had stuck by his side, trying to ignore the strange looks the other Denizens were giving him.

He isn't sure how he feels about being more than half Denizen himself, now. He's taller, and even his hair colour is changing. Not to mention the strange feelings that he's been experiencing.

_You should take the Key back from him_, the Will says. Arthur startles; he'd nearly forgotten about it, coiled as it is around his wrist like a slightly heavy bracelet.

_No_, Arthur replies, stifling the urge to do just that. _I don't want to use the Key_.

He gets a sense of frustration, and then the Will is gone from his mind.

"Arthur?"

He blinks, his attention returning to Thursday. "Pardon?"

"Did you want to take the Improbable Stair to Friday's Scriptorium?"

Arthur bites his lip. Saturday got the same message he did... And if she gets the Fifth Key, it will be bad news for him. "Yeah... We can't let Saturday get there first. Assuming Friday really means to give up her Key..."

Thursday frowns. "I think it's a trap."

"Wednesday gave up her Key without a fuss," Arthur points out. Apart from the whole mess of ending up stranded on a hospital bed in the middle of the Border Sea, then trying to find Part Three, getting swallowed by a leviathan and fighting a mortal sorceror, all while on a broken leg...

Ok, Arthur reflects, it was just as difficult to get the Third Key as it was to get the others, even without the opposition of the Trustee.

Thursday looks a bit surprised to hear this. "That makes sense," he says slowly. "Wednesday's change was much more... noticeable. Not just in herself, but her Demesne. However, I don't believe Friday has had a similar change of heart. I have heard rumours... She uses the Fifth Key constantly. I don't think she would give it up easily."

Arthur just doesn't know enough about the Trustees. Saturday seems to be behind a lot of the things wrong with the House, but Sunday's even higher up than her, isn't he? And it turns out that Thursday isn't necessarily the villain everyone was making him out to be... But Thursday would know his fellow Trustees best, wouldn't he?

_He could be lying to you_, the Will says.

_You think Friday would just give up her Key?_

_I do not know of Lady Friday_.

_If you don't have anything _useful _to contribute, you can stay silent_. Arthur grits his teeth. The headache from before is coming back with a vengeance. "What would you suggest, then, sir?"

Thursday blinks. "We are not in the Great Maze anymore, Arthur. If you insist that I refer to you by name, you should do the same."

Arthur feels a reluctant smile tug at his lips. "Then, Thursday, same question?"

Thursday smiles in return, a proper smile, not like the grimaces he would sometimes show before. "... If it is a trap, I don't think it's wise to show up on the Improbable Stair. Though we would have the element of surprise and a Key, the Fourth Key is not at full strength in the Middle House. You are still partly mortal as well," Thursday adds. "I could scout ahead myself, but that would leave you alone without the Key."

Arthur nods. "I guess... if Friday really isn't here, it wouldn't hurt to do some reconnaissance."

"Saturday would likely be wary of a trap as well," Thursday adds. "I doubt she would come in person. And there is the matter of the Will; just because Friday is supposedly relinquishing the Fifth Key does not mean that whoever happens to pick it up may wield it."

"Should we return to the Great Maze? Or go to the Dayroom in the Lower House..." Arthur frowns.

"There is an elevator to the Middle House from the Great Maze. A suitable invading force could be arranged, Arthur," Thursday says.

That makes sense. "Let's do that, then," Arthur says. "I can consult with Dame Primus too, I guess."

Thursday nods and pulls out the baton. He sketches a set of stairs in the air, but when he tries to take a step on them, nothing happens. His foot passes right through. Thursday frowns and tries again, then a third time, with the same result.

"... The Stair will not take me," Thursday says.

"What? Why not?" Arthur asks. "You're wielding the Fourth Key..."

_But he is only holding it; it is not his_, the Will says. _The Improbable Stair rejects most Denizens. Now that Thursday is no longer a Trustee, he is being rejected_.

"You will have to take the Stair back yourself, Arthur," Thursday says.

"No, I don't want to use the Key," Arthur says. "Besides, that would mean leaving you behind in enemy territory."

Thursday looks surprised, which is kind of annoying. Did he really think Arthur would just leave him behind?

Arthur pulls a face. "Right. Well, let's get moving. We could check out that building, maybe whoever's there will know where the Will is."

"You could try asking Part Four," Thursday says, setting off through the snow. He is not much wider than Arthur, though he does not seem to show any difficulty forging through several feet of snow.

Arthur follows in his wake, glad to have someone that has some idea of what they're doing with him for once. _Well? Do you know where Part Five is?_

_... Higher. Somewhere above_, the snake replies, sounding distracted. _Beyond that, I cannot say_.

Arthur scowls. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. _Well, if you get any other sign, tell me_. Aloud, he says, "Part Four says Five's somewhere above us."

"As expected," Thursday answers, then he stops so abruptly that Arthur walks into his back.

He bounces off and stumbles in the snow, his hand flying to the hilt of his rapier. However, Thursday has not drawn the Fourth Key.

"What is it?" Arthur asks, floundering awkwardly in the snow to draw up beside him.

A line of footprints - pawprints, to be more accurate - leads toward them, ending with a fallen Raised Rat. There is blood staining the snow, and the Rat's body is too still.

Thursday starts forward, one hand on the Key-baton tucked into his belt, with Arthur close behind. He pulls a scrap of parchment out of its bloody paw and opens it, holding it so that Arthur can read it too.

_For the last time, I do not wish to intervene. Manage affairs in the House as you wish. It will make little difference in the end._

_S._

"'S'?" Arthur echoes, eyeing the torn off edge, which has a bit of the rainbow wax all Trustees use for their seals on it. "Saturday or Sunday...?"

"Sunday," Thursday says, handing him the scrap. "Are you cold?" he adds, frowning faintly.

Arthur's started shivering; the last fall had gotten snow down his back. "Yeah," he says, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering as he shoves the scrap into his pocket.

Thursday strips off his uniform coat and drapes it over Arthur's shoulders before he can protest. It settles over him like a warm blanket, and he can't bring himself to take it off.

"What about you?" he protests weakly, even as he draws the folds closer.

"Army Denizens were created to be more resistant to the elements than regular Denizens," Thursday says, turning away. "... There is something approaching in the distance. We should keep moving."

Arthur follows his gaze, to a line of steadily advancing figures, coming from the direction of the Raised Rat. The line extends as far as he can see.

"Right. Let's go."

* * *

"What do you think that note was?" Arthur asks, a little out of breath; he has to trot to keep up with Thursday's increased pace. Thursday's still a head taller than him.

"A letter to Saturday," Thursday says, casting a glance at the approaching figures. "Likely that Raised Rat took the Transfer Plate that Friday sent to Saturday."

"So Sunday isn't interested in what happens at all?"

"I believe so. My orders have always come down from Saturday, apart from the letter informing me that Saturday was to act as Sunday's deputy," Thursday explains.

"He didn't even tell you in person?"

"The letter bore his seal," Thursday says, albeit stiffly. "Even before... Sunday had no interest in anything beyond the Incomparable Gardens."

"It must've been Saturday that killed Monday and Tuesday, then... Or had them killed, anyway."

Thursday casts a surprised look over his shoulder. "Pardon?"

"Well if Sunday doesn't care... Friday obviously doesn't either. And it wasn't you. I don't know who else..." But even as Arthur says it, he feels something click in his mind. There is one other person - being - who fits the criteria.

"Saturday is not the type to mount a direct assault into enemy territory like that," Thursday says. "At the very least, she would not care enough about Monday and Tuesday to dispose of them. I do not imagine that someone as inactive as Monday was aware of much that went on in his own Demesne, much less the House at large. As for Tuesday, so long as he received payment for the goods produced, he did not care what went on. What possible reason would she have to risk one of her servants to eliminate Denizens who were not even a threat to her?"

"But- Dame Primus said..." Arthur bites his lip and looks down at the snake on his wrist.

"The Will seeks to fulfill its clauses," Thursday says. "It is not pleased to be left broken and unfulfilled."

Arthur frowns. The Architect is the Ultimate Creator of Everything. It seems ridiculous that the servants She entrusted with Her Will would dare to go against it. Moreover, Denizens were created - as far as Arthur knows - to serve her. They are not independent like mortals. They have functions within the House, and they exist to fulfill them. Disobedience is almost anathema to their purpose. Maybe Her mortal sons would seek to circumvent that, but the only one who is a Trustee is Sunday, and Thursday had said he didn't even care about the rest of the House, so why...?

"What does the Will entail?" Arthur asks. It seems strange to have never asked that, but what reason would he have to do so? From the beginning, the Will seemed to be on his side against the villainous Trustees. Without the intervention of Monday (at the Will's behest), Arthur would be dead. Monday's servants brought plagues to Earth when they attempted to reclaim the Minute Hand from Arthur; they were, he later learned, breaking the Original Law.

And then Tuesday tried to wreck Arthur's world even further, and he was a horrible slavedriver. Wednesday showed remorse for her actions, further cementing Arthur's thoughts; if one of the traitors was repenting, then surely what they had done must have been wrong.

"The destruction of Everything," Thursday says, calmly.

"What!?" Arthur cries, certain that he has somehow heard wrong.

"The Architect wishes for Her existence to cease," Thursday says. "I do not know the specifics, but for Her existence to cease, the rest of existence must do the same."

_He is lying_, the Will says. _Look at what the Trustees have done! They have done more to destabilize the House than anything else_.

_Thursday said the Border Sea can be reined in all at once, using the power of the Third Key. Is that true?_

_For someone with the right to wield it, certainly._

Arthur grits his teeth. Dame Primus had told him each instance where the Border Sea impinged on Nothing would need to be drawn back in individually.

_What do your paragraphs say? Paraphrase, please,_ he adds, remembering the habit Dame Primus has of creating tedious lists.

_I detail the justice that will be exacted upon the Denizens of the Architect should any Part of me remain unfulfilled. As none of my Parts have been fulfilled, justice shall be exacted upon every single one of the traitorous Trustees._

_And what do the other Parts say?_

_I do not know; but I know that they have not been fulfilled_.

Arthur balls his hands into fists. So any of the other paragraphs could detail the destruction of Everything - including the home that Arthur is so desperate to return to - and the other Parts wouldn't know.

"Arthur?" Thursday says, in an undertone.

"Huh?"

"Are you conversing with the Will?"

"I was..."

"We are being pursued by Fetchers. It would be no trouble to banish them back to Nothing, but that level of sorcery would likely draw the attention of anyone - or anything - strong within the area," Thursday says.

"Someone must've made them," Arthur agrees.

"I noticed a group of them converging on the Raised Rat's body," Thursday adds. "They must be Saturday's pawns."

There didn't seem to be any other likely candidate.

"How far away are we from that building?" Arthur mutters, scowling. It can't have been that long, but it feels like he's been following Thursday through the snow for ages. "It's like walking up to a mountain, it's not getting any closer-" He stops as they crest a ridge, and see the building lying below them. Beyond it, a vast river stretches left and right. "Whoa."

"The Extremely Grand Canal," Thursday says. "I have heard that it is the only means of travelling between the levels of the Middle House, apart from the elevators."

"So we need to find a boat," Arthur concludes.

"Indeed."

* * *

A group of Fetchers is lounging in front of the door when Arthur and Thursday round the corner of the building and find it, but between the two of them - well, mostly Thursday - they make short work of the Nithlings.

A metallic bang draws Arthur's attention to the door, and the small slot for, presumably, mail delivery.

Arthur exchanges a glance with Thursday.

Thursday raps on the door, a no-nonsense sort of rap that somehow manages to convey a sense of authority. "Open up," he orders.

"Only authorized members of the Guild of Gilding and Illumination can enter the Foil Mill-"

"What is your name and order of precedence?" Thursday snaps.

"Marek Flat Gold, Leading Foil Maker Second Class, 97,585th in precedence within the House," the Denizen rattles off immediately. "Oh!"

"Well, Marek Flat Gold," Thursday sneers, reminding Arthur of how he was before he was restored, back when Arthur first knew him, "I am Sir Thursday, Commander of the Glorious Army of the Architect, Regent of the Great Maze, 7th in precedence within the House, and I command you to open this door."

"S-seventh-!" There's some creaking and the protest of hinges, then the door opens and a timid, wiry Denizen peeks out. "P-pardon my rudeness, sir..."

Thursday ignores him and sweeps past. Arthur casts a glance at the snow-covered area around them - free of Fetchers or any other being for now - before following him inside.

Marek leads them into the Foil Mill, which is quite warm. There's a row of Denizens with strips of paper extending from their forehead down to their chin laid out near an open fire. Arthur edges as close as he dares, and keeps an eye on the Denizens around them.

All of them are busy going about their work, except for the ones lying near Arthur, and Marek of course. Thursday seems to be interrogating him, although Arthur can't hear anything over the racket of the Denizens beating the gold into bars with hammers.

At length, Thursday joins him by the slumbering(?) Denizens. His lips thin in distaste when he spies them, but he says nothing on the subject.

"There is a wharf to the west, not too far from here. If you are sufficiently warm, we should depart while there is still daylight," Thursday shouts. Even though he's bent down to be near Arthur's ear, he can barely hear the Denizen's words.

"Ok!" Arthur agrees, nodding just in case Thursday doesn't hear him.

* * *

"Do you hear that?" Arthur asks, casting a worried glance back. Though they are headed away from the line of Fetchers, the Nithlings were moving in this direction; they must still be following Arthur and Thursday. Though the eerie scream that had sounded from behind them certainly wasn't from a Fetcher.

"Yes," Thursday mutters, frowning. "We should move faster." He quickens his pace, foraging through the snow without any visible effort. Arthur feels briefly jealous, but puts it aside. A few feet of snow probably wouldn't bother him if he was a Denizen either, but he doesn't _want_ to become a Denizen.

"What do you think it is?" Arthur pants, jogging to match Thursday's stride.

"Some Nithling," Thursday says. "Saturday seems fond of summoning them. No Denizen sounds like that."

The unnatural shriek echoes across the snow towards them once more, and Arthur shivers despite himself.

"There is the wharf," Thursday says. It extends at least fifty feet over the Canal, and is covered in various pieces of writing. Stone tablets, smelly vellum, bundles of papyrus... It's so full of junk that Arthur isn't sure that there's anywhere to walk.

The sun has just sunk beneath the horizon when they reach the foot of it. There's a dark passage that would fit at most three Denizens abreast; there aren't any lights along it.

"Do we follow that?" Arthur mutters.

"It's the only way forward," Thursday says, drawing the Key. It transforms into the massive sword that Thursday seems to favour. "Shed light," he orders, and it glows a soft green like the moon of the Great Maze. "I'll go first."

"OK," Arthur says, or starts to say. He only gets to the 'oh' before a piercing shriek splits the air. Terror seizes him, and he shoves past Thursday to dash down the passage, heedless of any obstacles in front of him.

All he can think about is getting away from whatever made that horrible sound.

* * *

"Arthur!" Thursday shouts, making a grab for the boy's shoulder. His hand closes on empty air and Arthur bolts away, terror obvious from his expression.

He casts a glance back - he can see a large, dark shape moving towards him. The Nithling, obviously. It shrieks again, but Thursday doesn't feel particularly afraid.

There is no telling what is on the shabby, cluttered wharf though. What if there is an ambush waiting within? The wharf is obviously in a state of disrepair; though Arthur is light, it does not seem unreasonable to think that he could fall through the boards and drown in the Canal, especially given the Canal's nature.

Thursday plunges after Arthur, sword held aloft so that he does not accidentally skewer Arthur or something equally unfortunate.

Although he has the advantage of a head start and terror-fueled speed, Arthur has nothing to light his way. Thursday manages to catch up to him when he trips over a stack of musty parchment scrolls. He grabs Arthur's arm and hauls him to his feet from where the boy was trying to disentangle himself from the records.

Arthur immediately lashes out, his eyes showing no recognition when he looks at Thursday.

"Arthur-"

Behind him, the scream sounds again; Arthur's attempts to escape become even more frenzied so that Thursday nearly loses his grip.

"Arthur!" Thursday shouts, wracking his mind for some way to dispel the obvious sorcery. The Key would protect Arthur from such enchantments but-

As if anticipating his thoughts, the Fourth Key resumes its baton form, which Thursday presses against Arthur's flailing hand.

Arthur stops struggling, though he is still panting from exertion. "What-"

"The Nithling," Thursday says.

A splintering sound reaches them, followed by a high-pitched scream that makes Arthur clap his hands over his ears. The scream abruptly cuts off with a loud splash.

"It fell through," Thursday says. "Let's go."

Arthur nods, his face pale in the green light, and falls into step behind Thursday.

"Do you know what kind of Nithling that thing was?" Arthur asks.

"No; it seemed to be pure Nothing encased in a silver wire frame... Its identity is not familiar to me."

"Well, as long as it's gone," Arthur says. As if on cue, the boards they're walking on bow upward, creaking.

"The current must not move fast so close to the banks," Thursday says, starting to jog down the dark passage with Arthur close at his heels.

The claustrophobic press of old records suddenly gives way to a room. It is not particularly large, but it's a lot more comfortable than the passage.

Four Denizens clad in paper (Paper Pushers, Thursday assumes) are clustered around a window; it looks like they all tried to climb out at the same time and got stuck.

"Halt!" Thursday orders. His words seem to spur them on, however, and two of them manage to wriggle through to whatever is waiting outside.

Some boat?

Thursday strides over, bats aside the long, hooked pole that one of the remaining Paper Pushers tries to strike him with, and grabs the man's collar.

"You are a Paper Pusher, are you not?" Thursday demands, as the last Paper Pusher escapes out the window.

"I-I won't say either way!" the Denizen says, torn between fear and defiance.

"Name and precedence?" Arthur asks, obviously picking up Thursday's trick from earlier.

"Peter Pirkin, Primary Paper Pusher, First Class, 65,898,756th in- Oh, you're sharp."

"There's a barge or something outside the window, Thursday," Arthur says, peering through the window.

The Nithling's horn suddenly pierces the floor near them, causing Arthur to jump back.

"You'll be taking us to Friday's Scriptorium," Thursday informs Pirkin.

"Can't! Won't!" Pirkin squirms, trying to escape Thursday's grasp, but he is much too weak.

"Explain," Thursday growls.

"The Canal only goes to the Top Shelf! And-"

The Nithling crashes through again, managing to get its forelegs onto the deck.

Thursday cleaves its head in two with the Fourth Key, which had obligingly transformed into its sword form. The wire crumples, and the Nothing simply disappears from within its cage.

"A-a-and only registered members of the Noble and Exalted Association of Waterway Motivators can ride the rafts!" Pirkin stammers, his eyes wide.

"We'll join," Arthur says.

Pirkin's gaze darts from the gaping holes left by the Nithling to the shining sword in Thursday's hand.

"Welcome to the Association!" he says, then grumbles, "Things are all muddled around here anyway... Letters from Lady Friday and Superior Saturday... It's all nonsense."

* * *

Thankfully, there is a reasonably sturdy hut in the centre of the raft - which is itself the size of a football field - and it is very warm within. Pirkin insists that they put on the same paper clothes that the Paper Pushers wear, so that they won't drown if they fall in the Canal, as soon as he and the other Paper Pushers get the raft in a suitable current.

The paper clothes are large enough to fit over Arthur's uniform, which is nice. He could use an extra layer of insulation, even with Thursday's coat.

"You mentioned letters from the Trustees," Thursday says, his eyes tracking Pirkin's every move. He's already been outfitted with the paper clothes, though the sleeves and pants are several inches short and the red and black of his uniform peeks out.

"The other Trustees, you mean?" Pirkin asks, carefully cutting Arthur's sleeves to the proper length. "You're Sir Thursday, aren't you?"

"Yes, but I am no longer a Trustee," Thursday says.

"Then you must be Lord Arthur," Pirkin says, looking at Arthur. "I thought you'd be taller."

"That's what everyone says," Arthur sighs. "Can we see the letters?"

"At once, milord." Pirkin tucks the scissors away and goes over to a table. He sifts through the documents strewn across it and brings back two for them to look at.

"Just call me Arthur, please," he says, taking the first and handing the other to Thursday.

Pirkin coughs. "I'd best make sure we're in the fastest current," he says. "Lord Arthur."

Arthur scowls, but doesn't press the matter. He's too busy scanning the letter, which has come down from Saturday. In it, she claims control of the Middle House, denounces Arthur and orders the execution of any Raised Rats. And also outlaws something called "experiencing".

"What's experiencing?" Arthur asks, exchanging letters with Thursday.

"I'm not sure," Thursday says, scanning Saturday's letter.

Arthur does the same with the other, which is from Friday. It says that she is leaving the Middle House, but makes no mention of her abdication.

"'Tacit approval'," Thursday mutters, scowling. "As ever, Sunday remains uninterested in what goes on in the other Demesnes."

"What does tacit mean again?" Arthur asks.

"Unspoken," Thursday says, handing Saturday's letter back.

"That makes sense, especially with that scrap of a letter we found with the Raised Rat..."

Thursday nods. "I think we should go back to the deck. I don't trust the Paper Pushers."

Arthur drops the letters back on the table and follows him out the door.

"Should be less than an hour to the rise," Pirkin says, leaning against one of those poles to help steer the raft. "Then ten hours or so to the Middle of the Middle."

Thursday sits on a bundle of records, his gaze steadily scanning from the banks to the sky to the water behind them.

Arthur sits down beside him, and immediately feels tired. It's the first time he's sat down since arriving in the Middle House. He can barely remember the last time he slept either.

"I will keep watch," Thursday says.

"All right," Arthur mumbles, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion; the steady rhythm of the boat on the water is enough to lull him to sleep, Thursday a solid, warm presence beside him.

* * *

Arthur's staring at his reflection in the mirror, except it isn't anything he recognizes. He's wearing a greatcoat reminiscent of the Piper's, except it's in the red of the Regiment, and his face is completely hidden by a golden mask. Everything but his eyes, but they do not look normal either. They've become a bright, impossible shade of blue that seems to glow in the mirror.

The people around him move around him like ghosts, which only makes sense because he's in the washrooms back in the Great Maze. Except the people are his family, and when Arthur tries to call out to them, his voice is strange; too deep, and weirdly melodious.

It's the voice of a very superior Denizen.

Arthur raises his hand and rips off the golden mask. It clatters into the sink, revealing a face that he barely recognizes as his own. It's like his old face was a child's drawing and this new, sickeningly unfamiliar one is the work of a master artist.

It's perfect; features symmetrical and aesthetically pleasing in every way and utterly horrifying. Perfectly horrible. Arthur tries to turn away, but his body won't move, and then a face appears on the other side of the mirror (the same as the face he'd dreamt for Saturday all those weeks ago) and it smiles at him.

Arthur opens his mouth to scream, but only gold blood bubbles out as pain radiates from his chest. Behind him, the Piper's steel mask leers; a rapier protrudes from Arthur's chest, a sick, reverse parody of when Arthur had run the Piper through with the Fourth Key-

* * *

Arthur comes awake abruptly, gasping for breath. His hand closes around the hilt of his rapier, but he only draws it an inch or so before he realizes where he is.

The closest Paper Pusher gives him a strange look before glancing past him and paling. She quickly returns to the task of propelling the raft forward.

"Nightmare?" Thursday's voice rumbles at Arthur's side.

He sits up quickly, his cheeks heating as he realizes he had fallen asleep against Thursday's side. "Uh, yeah," he mutters, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of one paper sleeve. At least he wasn't drooling. "Sorry about, you know-"

"It's fine," Thursday says. His gaze is focussed above, though it's too dark for Arthur to see much of anything.

The raft suddenly lurches, and Arthur slides back into Thursday. The Denizen steadies him, then climbs to his feet with a frown.

"It's just the rise leading up to the skylock, sir," Pirkin says quickly.

"Skylock?" Arthur repeats.

"Each of the three terraces has its own sky, which separates it from the section above. The only way through to the level above is the skylock on the Canal, or the elevators," Pirkin explains. "But none of them are working, of course. Reckon it'll be a few hours before we reach it..."

Thursday sits back down, though his hand remains on the Key. "I think there is fighting up ahead," he says in an undertone to Arthur. "Perhaps you should take the Key, Arthur."

"I don't want to use it," Arthur says, just as quietly.

"It would protect you better than your ordinary rapier," Thursday says.

"And what about you?"

"I can wield a rapier with the same proficiency as any other weapon," Thursday says, with a touch of haughtiness.

Arthur scowls but reluctantly exchanges weapons. The Key is warm in his hand, seeming to hum beneath his fingers. It's otherwise identical to his rapier, if it wasn't for the faint current of power Arthur can feel radiating from it.

"Who's fighting?" Arthur asks, squinting up at the night sky in an attempt to distract himself from the Key's addictive influence. Now that he looks, he can see luminous figures clashing with dark ones. It's hard to see the dark ones moving about, except when they block the stars in the sky.

"Saturday's and Friday's forces, I'd guess," Thursday says. "Winged Servants of the Night and... Artful Loungers. If they were Internal Auditors or Sorcerous Supernumeraries, there'd be more sorcery."

It takes Arthur a moment to place the designations, but Marshal Dusk had also explained about the various warriors of the other Demesnes during their lessons. "What about Dawn's forces? Um.. the Gilded Youths?"

"I heard Dawn was fighting Saturday's forces higher up," Pirkin says helpfully.

"But isn't he in charge of the Flat?"

Pirkin sniffs. "With Friday and Noon and Dusk gone, he's trying to run the entire Middle House."

Arthur frowns. "Saturday probably has her stronger forces higher up too."

"I find it likely," Thursday agrees. "Also, at least one of her Times must be present; while she would not come herself, this is too good of a chance to pass up."

"Great. Well, we can take whoever it is..."

"Indeed," Thursday agrees.

"What's stronger, an Artful Lounger or a Winged Servant of the Night?" Arthur wonders, watching the dark and lit figures clashing overhead.

"Winged Servants of the Night, of course," Pirkin says in a strange, wistful tone.

Arthur glances at Thursday, who shrugs.

"The Winged Servants are better suited to fighting at night," he says.

As if to punctuate his statement, one of the flying combatants suddenly spirals down and bounces off the deck of the barge.

Arthur follows Thursday over, clenching the Key tightly.

It hisses, raising a tube that is not unlike the firewash projectors used by the Army. Nothing about its dark clothing can possibly be considered artful, so Arthur assumes it's a Winged Servant of the Night.

"Wait! We don't want to fight," Arthur says quickly, raising the Key in a harmless gesture. A beat later, Thursday does the same with the rapier.

The Winged Servant doesn't lower its weapon, but neither does it attack them.

"Um, can you talk?" Arthur asks hesitantly.

"No, they use symbols," Pirkin says. He's staring at the other Denizen with a mixture of longing and resentment.

"Oh..." Arthur frowns. "Does anyone know them?"

Thursday shakes his head, his gaze not leaving the Servant.

"I do," Pirkin mutters.

"Great! You can translate."

Pirkin grumbles something under his breath. "W- they hear just fine. I'll tell you what he answers."

The Winged Servant signs something, fingers flashing through the symbols way too quickly for Arthur to keep track, even if he knew what the symbols meant.

"This is Cool of the Evening," Pirkin says. "He wants to know who you are."

"Lord Arthur, Rightful Heir of the House," Arthur says. "And this is Sir Thursday."

"Have you come to claim the Middle House?" Pirkin translates as Cool of the Evening signs.

"Friday said she abdicated, and whoever got the Fifth Key first - me or Saturday - was free to have it."

"We have heard no such thing; though it is true that neither Lady Friday, nor her Noon and Dusk, are in the Middle House."

"Great," Arthur sighs; this is only further confirmation of what reading Pirkin's letters had told him. "What about her Dawn?"

"Friday's Dawn was driven back to Binding Junction, on the Top Shelf. Superior Saturday's forces hold the Middle of the Middle."

"What about the Winged Servants? You're fighting down here..."

"Friday's Dawn has ordered the Middle House to continue functioning as usual. While they do not recognize Dawn's authority, Friday's Dusk is not here to command otherwise, so the Servants will carry out their duty," Pirkin translates. "Which is to attack any intruders during the night, when the Servants fly."

"Uh," Arthur says, unable to keep his gaze from straying to the mini firewash projectors the Servants is holding.

"We are not intruding," Thursday says calmly. "Lady Friday invited us. Through trickery, of course, but it is an invitation nevertheless."

"Enemies incoming!" a disembodied voice shouts from somewhere near Arthur's foot. He looks up and sees a group of nine Artful Loungers descending.

Thursday scoffs, apparently unconcerned by the threat posed by the Denizens. "Be wary of those stilettos," is all he says, before the Loungers are upon them.

It is obvious that Thursday is better suited to a longer, broader weapon, but his skill with the rapier cannot be denied. He dispatches five of the Loungers before one manages to get past him; she lunges for Cool of the Evening, but Arthur darts in front of her. Months of training have him moving smoothly through a standard defense before his mind has time to react; a single brush of the Key's razor sharp blade against the Lounger's arm is enough to kill her.

She falls to the deck of the barge, a look of surprise on her face.

Thursday has dealt with the rest of the Loungers when Arthur manages to tear his gaze away from her wide, empty eyes.

It's different from killing the Piper. Arthur just has to look at the unnatural sprawl of her limbs - like a puppet with its strings cut - to know that she's dead; with the Piper, there had been no body. The only evidence of what Arthur had done had been a torn yellow greatcoat.

"-thur. Arthur," Thursday repeats, a frown on his face. He is, Arthur notices, standing just beyond the reach of Arthur's weapon. Probably wise; Arthur doesn't feel cold anymore, but his limbs are trembling nonetheless. His heart is pounding in his ears, nearly drowning out Thursday's voice.

"Throw the corpses overboard," Thursday orders, and when Pirkin - the only Paper Pusher in evidence - makes no move to do so, he starts picking up the Artful Loungers' bodies and tossing them into the Canal.

"Lord Arthur?" Pirkin asks cautiously. The only one who approaches him is Thursday though; and then only to take the Lounger that Arthur had killed away.

"What?" Arthur mutters, not looking away from the small pool of blue blood on the paper deck. The wound Arthur had dealt was so minor, it hadn't bled much. But it was still enough to kill the Artful Lounger.

"More Winged Servants are descending," Pirkin says. "Cool of the Evening is telling them you and Sir Thursday are allies."

"Good," Arthur says, though his voice sounds strange even to his own ears. "I don't want to fight anymore."

"Ah, that is One Who Survived the Darkness," Pirkin mumbles, looking at the trio of Winged Servants who alight on the deck.

"Huh?" Arthur says.

Pirkin coughs. "One Who Survived the Darkness is the one who reports to Friday's Dusk; she is highest in precedence."

The middle Servant is taller than the other two, so Arthur assumes that she is One Who Survived the Darkness. The others quickly sign introductions, which Pirkin dutifully translates.

"Lord Arthur and Sir Thursday," Arthur says, wearily.

This prompts another flurry of signs, which Pirkin has no trouble deciphering: "They want to know what your intentions are."

"To claim the Fifth Key and with it Mastery of the Middle House," Arthur says. "Though we have to find Part Five of the Will first. I don't suppose you know where it is?"

"They do not."

"Ok." Arthur isn't surprised, and he shouldn't be disappointed: of course the Trustees would not hide their portions of the Will somewhere that he could easily find. He bites his lip, thinking; it's a welcome distraction from the Artful Lounger, anyway. "Well, maybe they can help us get to the Middle of the Middle? Flying's got to be faster than the raft, no offense, Pirkin."

"It would be," Pirkin agrees. "However, the Winged Servants can't spare any wings. They will carry you and Sir Thursday to Binding Junction, on the Top Shelf, though.

"Great," Arthur says, a bit surprised by the generosity. He had only asked to go to the next terrace, not all the way to the top. "We'd appreciate it."

One Who Survived the Darkness signs something else, then the two Winged Servants who landed with her help Cool of the Evening into the air and they all fly off.

"More Servants will be down in a bit to take you," Pirkin says. "Four for each of you."

"Do you want to come?" Arthur asks.

Pirkin looks startled. "Of course not."

"Just to help translate with the Servants," Arthur says. "You wouldn't have to fight or anything."

"I can't," Pirkin says, though he seems like he wants to agree.

Arthur frowns, but doesn't press the matter. "Do you know anyone else who would know the symbols?"

"Just some of the other Paper Pushers," Pirkin says, looking out across the water. "And Friday's Dusk, of course. But he isn't here."

"You would be rewarded," Thursday says. "When Lord Arthur assumes control of the Middle House, there will be at least two positions open within the upper ranks."

Pirkin's gaze flits to him. "I- Oh, all right." He hops up on a nearby bundle of records and starts moving his arms really quickly.

"Are those the symbols?" Arthur asks.

"Yes," Pirkin says, distractedly. "It's been a while since I've used them."

Which makes Arthur wonder about how much interaction there is between the Noble and Exalted Association of Waterway Motivators and the Winged Servants of the Night, that a Paper Pusher would need to learn the symbols used by the Servants.

He forgets all about that when twelve Servants descend, to carry Arthur, Thursday and Pirkin up to the Top Shelf.

* * *

"I think my arms are going to fall off," Arthur says, wincing as he rolls his shoulders.

Thursday grunts in agreement, moving through a series of stretches himself. "They left in a hurry," he observes, his gaze fixed upon the tiny specks that are all that remain of the Winged Servants who dropped them off. As Arthur watches, even the specks disappears. The light is poor, because the sun (or maybe suns) has yet to rise; though the sky is lightening in what Arthur assumes to be the east.

"They have to be back in the eyrie by the time the sun rises," Pirkin says. Then he seems to remember who he's talking to and quickly adds, "Uh, sir."

"Did they tell you that?" Arthur asks, curious. He hadn't noticed any hand signing going on, but then he was distracted with his loudly protesting joints after his feet touched solid ground again.

"No, everyone knows that. Er, everyone in the Middle House, that is."

"I suppose," Thursday concedes. He casts a glance around them, but so far no one has come to investigate them. They are still pretty far from the edge of the Friday's Dawn's camp, though.

"Do you think Friday's Dawn will treat with us?" Arthur asks, eyeing the camp warily.

"I don't know. He may," Thursday says. "He is resisting Saturday's forces, after all."

"True," Arthur mutters. "What are his soldiers called again? The Gilded Youths?"

"Yes. I meant to ask before; how did you know that?"

"Marshal Dusk taught me the different designations," Arthur explains.

Thursday frowns faintly. "I see."

"There's a group of sentries approaching, sir, Lord Arthur," Pirkin says, before Arthur can ask Thursday what the matter is.

"Just Arthur is fine, Pirkin," Arthur says; maybe Pirkin will actually listen this time.

_Part Five is quite close. Somewhere above..._ the Will says, startling Arthur again.

_The Scriptorium, maybe?_ Arthur asks.

_I... do not know. I lack any knowledge of the Middle House, beyond what you have been told recently,_ the Will says. _I can only say that it is coming from the direction of the peak; so it is a possibility._

_Ok, great. Thanks,_ Arthur says.

"Paper Pushers unauthorized Binding Junction," one of the sentries says in a weird, crackly voice. All four of them have their small bows and stubby arrows trained on the three of them, two for Thursday and one each for Arthur and Pirkin.

Arthur stares. He's seen stranger Denizens before... probably... but he can't think of any right now. The Gilded Youths are about his size, covered in golden armour sculpted to resemble an impossibly muscled body, with matching golden masks. The angles of the eye, nose and mouth slits are such that it is impossible to glimpse the face of the Denizen beneath.

Assuming, Arthur thinks grimly, they even are Denizens.

"I'm Lord Arthur," he says, recovering himself. He's seen strange things in the House before; this is just something else to add to the list. "I want to parley with Friday's Dawn."

"You're one to talk about being authorized!" Pirkin adds. "Friday's Dawn is head of the Guild of Gilding and Illumination, down on the Flat."

After a few moments of low, crackly discussion, one of the Youths flies off towards the centre of the camp. The other three keep their weapons on them.

"Are they- Piper's Children?" Arthur asks.

"They were," Pirkin says slowly.

"What happened?"

"Grim Tuesday got a hold of them and made... twisted them into what they are now. I do not know how much of the original child is left within that armour," Thursday explains quietly.

Arthur bites his lip, but he doesn't have long to dwell on that before a tall, handsome Denizen clad in a larger version of the Gilded Youths' armour flies out to meet them.

"Lord Arthur. ... Sir Thursday," he adds, a blink the only indication of his surprise. His voice is gravelly, not at all what Arthur was expecting to hear.

"Friday's Dawn," Arthur says, inclining his head slightly.

"Lieutenant Colonel Dawn. Though you were not Dawn when you did your time in the Army," Thursday says.

"Yes, sir. I am recently appointed, after the untimely demise of my predecessor."

"What happened?" Arthur asks, curious despite the somewhat pressing nature of their meeting. Maybe that's why this Dawn is male; every other one that Arthur has met was a woman.

"An accident with experiencing," Dawn says, distastefully. Then, apparently tired of the topic, Dawn adds, "You wished to parley."

"Yes," Arthur agrees, a bit disgruntled to have missed his chance to ask what this 'experiencing' thing is. One of Friday's Times ought to know more about it. "I'm taking command of the Middle House. Since you're resisting Saturday's forces, I think we can reach an agreement."

Dawn's eyes narrow, but he does not try to attack them. The camp is coming to life behind him, with the rising sun, but even so... Arthur thinks that between the Fourth Key and Thursday's mettle, they would be able to retreat to a better position at least.

"I do not know whether the mirror in the Scriptorium is the Fifth Key," he says finally. "Or the location of the Will, which you will require to gain the Key in any case. However, Lady Friday uses it often; I doubt she would give it up..."

"Is she in the Middle House?"

"No; she is at her retreat in the Secondary Realms. And I do not know its location, as I have never approved of her... activities," Dawn adds, when Arthur opens his mouth to ask.

"Right," Arthur mutters, remembering Emelena's message. A retreat in the Secondary Realms had been mentioned.

"In light of this abandonment, I do not consider myself loyal to Friday," Dawn says. "Rather, my loyalty lies with the Middle House. I believe you will hold the Middle House's interests in higher regard than Superior Saturday would. ... In which case, I accept your offer, Lord Arthur."

"Great," Arthur says, pleased; but he can't forget Pravuil, who had offered his allegiance but never actually given it. Just because Dawn seems trustworthy... doesn't mean he is. "You'll have to swear allegiance to me, on the Fourth Key." He pulls the baton of his belt, and it lengthens to its rapier form when Arthur holds it out before him, pointing at the ground.

Dawn doesn't bat an eyelash, the plates of his armour clanking as he kneels. His gauntleted hands touch the Key's blade. "I, Friday's Dawn, do swear allegiance to Lord Arthur, the Rightful Heir of the Architect."

* * *

"Saturday's Dusk and a group of Internal Auditors flew up to the Scriptorium not long ago," Dawn tells him. His mouth thins as he glances at the miniature fortress that is Binding Junction. "I cannot spare any of my force to accompany you, however."

"The High Guild of Binding and Restoration sides with Saturday?" Arthur asks.

"Yes," Dawn agrees, sourly. Pirkin spits on the ground.

"How many Internal Auditors?"

"A dozen or so," Dawn reports. "... Perhaps I can spare a few Youths to accompany you. Saturday's Noon was here briefly, but he has already left the Middle House. I believe Dusk is in charge; if he is otherwise occupied..."

"Can you spare some wings?" Arthur asks.

Dawn nods. "Of course. I have an extra set that Sir Thursday can use. Though the Paper Pusher will have to make do with a pair of the Youths' wings. I believe a smaller pair would size itself better to you anyway, Lord Arthur."

"Too bright," Pirkin mutters, scowling for no reason.

"That makes sense. You don't have to come with us, Pirkin," Arthur adds, because the Paper Pusher seems rather disgruntled. "I mean, it's daytime. I doubt we'll be running into any Winged Servants of the Night."

"I wish to accompany to you," Pirkin says quickly.

"A force of ten Gilded Youths should be a sufficient escort," Thursday remarks. "I am more than a match for Saturday's Dusk, and Arthur wields the Fourth Key."

"I can spare ten," Dawn agrees shortly, after a few moments' thought.

* * *

_Part Five is quite close, Arthur_, the Will says. _It is... in the mountain, somehow_.

Arthur slows. "Inside the mountain?" He looks at it, but, well, it just looks like a mountain.

_Yes, but I cannot communicate... Perhaps you should try calling out to it?_ the Will suggests.

"Like just think at it?" Arthur asks, frowning. The Will has always reached out to him in the past... but maybe Friday has taken precautions to prevent just that.

"Pardon?" Pirkin says, pulling up beside Arthur. The daisy yellow wings do look a bit odd on him; he's better suited to dark colours. But that doesn't seem like something to get upset about, like he had before.

Arthur tries to imagine how he himself must look, clad in Regiment red, with similarly bright wings, then dismisses the thought.

"Uh, Part Five is in the mountain, apparently." Arthur focuses. _Part Five of the Will? Are you there?_ It feels strange and a little bit silly to try to communicate with something he doesn't know merely by thinking at it. There's no reply, and Arthur feels even more ridiculous for it.

Thursday, noticing their slowed pace, flies back to them. "What is it?" he asks.

"The mountain... There are tunnels inside," Pirkin says quietly.

"Part Four says Part Five is inside the mountain," Arthur repeats for Thursday's benefit. "I can't call it though. And what's this about tunnels?"

Thursday frowns at the mention of the Will, but doesn't say anything.

"There is only one entrance on the Top Shelf, though. It should be... yes, a bit further up," Pirkin says, squinting at the mountainside.

"Can you take us there?" Arthur asks, trying to follow Pirkin's gaze. It all looks the same to him. Craggy. Rocky. There's some cliffs. It looks roughly uniform to him though.

"Yes," Pirkin says, reluctantly.

"What is inside these tunnels?" Thursday asks.

"Well, the B-Beast," Pirkin stammers; Arthur frowns at Thursday, but the Denizen isn't even scowling ferociously at Pirkin like he had been back on the raft, so he's not sure what caused the stutter. This Beast must be fearsome. "And it's the home of the Winged Servants of the Night."

"Is 'the Beast' Part Five of the Will?" Arthur asks.

"I don't know," Pirkin says slowly, frowning. "Maybe. I don't know." He shakes his head. "It must be; I can't think of anything else in there that could possibly be a Part of the Will."

"You've been there before?"

Pirkin looks up, his eyes tracing restlessly over the mountainside. "The entrance is not far from here, Lord Arthur." Then he flies up, before Arthur can press the issue.

* * *

"Entrance Winged Servants Night home," the leader of Gilded Youths - Fifteen - says. "Entry forbidden day flyers."

"I have to go in there," Arthur says, looking away from the hole.

"Entry forbidden day flyers," she reiterates.

"You can stay out here," Arthur tells her, and she flaps away to rejoin the other nine Youths slowly circling above. He looks back at the hole. He can't see where it ends, and it looks like it would be difficult to enter and exit at any rate.

"You won't fit, sir," Pirkin says apologetically to Thursday.

Thursday frowns.

"You haven't led us wrong so far, but you've been avoiding some of my questions," Arthur says coolly. "I've had a bad experience in the past - trusted a Denizen that I shouldn't have - and I don't want that to happen again."

Pirkin looks startled, then guilty. "I- Well, I haven't been entirely truthful, but it's nothing bad!" he adds quickly, casting furtive glances at Thursday, who _is_ scowling ferociously again. "I... I used to be a Winged Servant of the Night. I do not like to be reminded of it, much less to discuss it. That is why I have been... reticent." He glances back at the nondescript hole. "I do not even wish to return there. There is no place for me, now. But I'm the only one who knows the symbols - the reasons for which are evident to you - and your only means of communicating with the Winged Servants. So I'll accompany you."

Arthur nods; the explanation does make sense, given his behaviour. "Why aren't you a Winged Servant anymore?"

Pirkin doesn't look at him when he answers. "You saw m- their uniforms. They wear masks; it is a matter of honour, or pride. At any rate, I was... unmasked. By the B-Beast. The thought of returning to the eyrie in such a state was too shameful to consider. A number of the Paper Pushers on the Canal are former Servants, like me."

"Why were you and the others unmasked?" Thursday asks.

Pirkin shrugs, though it's a little hard to tell considering he's flying. "It happens, sometimes. There isn't a reason; one of us- them- is chosen to descend into its lair every so often. Only One Who Survived The Darkness has ever returned."

Arthur frowns. There's no point to this unmasking thing? Then why would the Will - if it was the Will - do it? Why would it make innocent Denizens suffer like that? He looks down at the serpent coiled about his wrist, and remembers that it drove Thursday to the point of madness. While the preceding Parts were not so malicious, it's not like any of them were particularly _nice_ either. It wouldn't be a surprise if Part Five was cut from the same cloth.

"Maybe there's a pen and paper inside," Arthur says, looking back at Pirkin. "If it's too painful, you don't have to come. I'll work something out."

Pirkin shakes his head. "... I've always wanted to go back," he says quietly, barely audible over the flapping of their wings. "I just couldn't bring myself to do it. It was just easier to tell myself I didn't want to go back at all."

"I'll definitely make you a Winged Servant again, when I'm Master of the Middle House," Arthur says firmly. "Dusk, even. The current Friday's Dusk obviously isn't doing the job right."

Pirkin looks startled again. "I'm hardly fit-"

"No buts," Arthur says. "We have to get the Will, and find out what's at the Scriptorium." He looks back at Thursday. "I'll be leaving you in command, then."

Thursday salutes him, though he smiles faintly as he does so. Teasing Arthur? At any rate, Arthur returns the grin and turns back to the mountain when Thursday flies up to join the circling Youths.

"You'll need to get a bit of speed going, so you don't crash against the sides," Pirkin says. "And pull your wings in as close to the hole as possible, without having them hit the edges either. Shall I go first to demonstrate?"

"You'd better," Arthur says; watching Pirkin fly up, then plummet into the hole with the ease of long practice isn't very encouraging either.

"You don't need to go quite so fast, Lord Arthur!" Pirkin calls up, his voice echoing. Arthur can't see him at all though.

"Right," Arthur mutters. "I can do this." He flies up a bit, then heads for the hole. He tucks his wings in as late as he dares, and for a moment he can't see anything as he falls into the crevice. He staggers when he hits the ground, but Pirkin grabs his arm before he can truly fall, and helps him gain his feet.

"The gate is not far ahead," Pirkin says quietly. "Can you see?"

"Not at all," Arthur says, squinting in the darkness.

"I'll light my wings, then."

Arthur follows Pirkin in silence, glad for his boots. There are puddles of water, which only get larger the further in they walk. Water drips deeper within, and the walls are damp with it.

"... This isn't a drain, is it?" Arthur says suspiciously.

Pirkin laughs, startled. "No, of course not. Ah, there's the gate." The tunnel is narrow enough that Arthur can't quite see beyond Pirkin's wings, folded close to his back though they are. Something rattles - the gate, presumably - and Pirkin sighs, "Locked, of course. I'll ring the bell."

They wait in silence, after the last echoing peals fade.

"Lord Arthur is here to see the Beast," Pirkin says, managing not to stutter. Arthur assumes one of the Winged Servants has come to answer the bell. "... Yes. Yes, he believes it to be Part Five of the Will. Very well."

Pirkin turns as well as he can in the narrow tunnel. "He is fetching the key to the gate. We will be seeing One Who Survived the Darkness shortly."

_Does Part Five feel closer_? Arthur asks the Will, which has remained quiet since they entered the tunnel.

_Yes. Somewhere beneath us._

* * *

They talk briefly to One Who Survived the Darkness, who allows Pirkin to escort Arthur to 'the Inner Darkness', which is apparently the Beast's lair. Arthur thinks that's a bit cruel, considering how pale Pirkin looks, but he imagines it would be just as traumatic for another Servant to do it as well.

"Shall I go first?" Pirkin says; he's sweating visibly, and won't quite meet Arthur's eyes. They're standing before what looks like a manhole, except the tunnel stretches down too far for Arthur to see its end.

"It's ok," Arthur says, trying to ignore how clammy his palms feel. The Beast is probably just the Will. In fact, Part Four seems convinced that it is. "I'll go alone. Part Four of the Will can lead me."

Pirkin shakes his head. "No, I- I would like to accompany you. You can't see in the dark." His gaze flicks to the serpent, the edge of one coil just visible beneath Arthur's sleeve.

"If you're sure," Arthur says, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. He doesn't want to go alone; Part Four of the Will doesn't really count.

Pirkin nods, drags one paper sleeve across his forehead. "There can be no light in the Inner Darkness. I will extinguish my wings as soon as we are both on the ladder."

Arthur bites his lip. "Ok. Let's go." He crouches down before Pirkin gets the chance and carefully gets his foot on the top rung. Then both. And he begins to climb down. Pirkin joins him a few moments later, muttering to extinguish his wings.

Then they are in the darkness, the only sounds the distant drip of water and the ringing of their boots against the rungs of the ladder.

"How much farther?" Arthur asks; even his murmur echoes around them. Is he in some vast, unseen cavern? He can't even see the rungs of the ladder, much less any details of their surroundings. His eyes have not adjusted to the darkness at all.

"We're more than halfway," Pirkin whispers back.

_Part Five is close by_, the Will confirms; it sounds eager, like it did when it was talking about justice and punishment back in the Great Maze.

Arthur doesn't know how far down they have travelled or how much time has passed when his boots hit solid rock rather than the metal of the ladder. Pirkin halts above him, which is good; otherwise he might have stepped on Arthur's head or hands when the boy stopped in surprise.

"Are there holes in the ground?" Arthur asks, unwilling to move from his current position. He remembers that twisty, precarious path he took to the Carp and has no wish to repeat the experience, knowingly or otherwise.

"No," Pirkin says. He jumps off the rungs, the flapping of his wings raising dust when he lands beside Arthur. "But it is uneven. I will lead you."

"Right. Thanks," Arthur says, and Pirkin grips his elbow. They begin to walk away from the ladder, in what the Will says is the right direction when he asks. Arthur hopes Pirkin'll be able to find their way back, because his sense of direction is useless in this darkness.

Pirkin gasps, his grip tightening. Arthur looks around, but he still can't make out Pirkin beside him, much less anything else.

"What is it?" Arthur whispers, and then he hears it: a wheeze, somewhere ahead of them, like a large beast breathing.

Pirkin is panting now, his grip almost painful around Arthur's arm. He's obviously terrified, and Arthur can't stand it. Maybe the Beast is guarding the Will and he will somehow have to find a way to defeat it. He pulls the Fourth Key out of his belt and raises it. Though he cannot see it, he feels the baton shift into the familiar hilt of his rapier.

"Shed light!" he orders. The rapier's blade glows, then shines until Arthur has to shut his eyes. Pirkin and something else (the Beast?) cry out in pain. "Less- less light!" Arthur says quickly. The light fades, until it is glowing with half the strength of the sun outside. It's more than enough in the darkness.

Pirkin shudders and takes a step back, but he does not release Arthur's arm. He barely notices, though; for a large beast - there is no other word to describe the strange creature - stands before them, a leathery wing thrown up in front of its face.

"Are you Part Five of the Will?" Arthur asks, not lowering the rapier.

"Yes, and you must be Lord Arthur. I have been awaiting your arrival," the Beast says, lowering its wing. He can see a collar that resembles a crown more than anything around its neck, attached to a chain that extends deeper into the cavern. The floor is covered by a multitude of jewels, which explains the uneven terrain.

"You know about me?"

"Indeed. One Who Survived the Darkness comes down to visit and bring me news from time to time." Part Five's large head swivels to regard Pirkin. "You are one of the Servants whose wrappers I have eaten. It must have been... several thousand years ago."

Pirkin's hand tightens, again. "Yes," he says, bowing his head.

"I thought you said you were unmasked," Arthur says, glancing at Pirkin.

"Well, I eat the wings and their leather uniform, including the mask," Part Five explains. "Most choose not to go back, after."

"But why would you eat their clothes and wings?" Arthur asks, frowning.

"It gets boring down here, alone," Part Five says reasonably. "I made a jewel to mark every week of my imprisonment, but that has since become old. Lady Friday no longer visits either; just One Who Survived the Darkness. And the jewels, but they are more dismal reminders than any real company."

"Right, Lady Friday said she abdicated," Arthur says, remembering his purpose in coming here; he decides to ignore the rest of what Part Five said - he's more than used to the Will's annoying quirks by now.

"She has done no such thing. She would need to consult with me, which she has not. I do not even sense the Fifth Key within the Middle House... only the Fourth. Have you left the other three outside?" Part Five adds.

"No," Arthur says shortly. "Do you know where Friday is?"

"I do not. But I'm sure we could find her if you let me free. And you have brought another Part of the Will. Where are the others?"

"Back in the Lower House, probably," Arthur says. "Actually, before you join with Part Four, I want to ask some questions."

"Very well." Part Five sounds puzzled.

"Do you know what the rest of the Will entails?"

"I do not. My paragraphs describe what sort of qualities the Rightful Heir ought to have. I don't know what the others say."

Arthur scowls; that only confirms what Part Four had told him. But Thursday would have no reason to lie, either. Arthur had healed him, after all. And what purpose would Thursday lying about the Will accomplish? It's not like Arthur is just going to give the Keys back to the Trustees and let them run the House into the ground again... "OK," he says, pushing those thoughts from his mind. He can deal with them later, when he's not stranded in enemy territory. "How do I free you?"

The Beast pads closer and leans down. Arthur can feel Pirkin trembling faintly. "You have only to touch the chain, Arthur."

He wills the Key to resume its baton form - he doesn't want to stab the Beast, but Pirkin doesn't seem likely to release his other arm any time soon - and touches the chain. It simply disappears, although the crown-collar remains.

"Ah, you _are_ the Rightful Heir. Excellent." The Beast rears up, stretching its bat-like wings to their full extent, then... shrinks. "It might be better to have more than one perspective," Part Five says, perching on the shoulder opposite the snake. "We have been separated for this long, we can stand a bit more."

"Well, all right," Arthur says. Apart from the whole tormenting Winged Servants thing, Part Five seems decent. Sensible. "I guess we should carry on to the Scriptorium. Friday's Dawn said Saturday's Dusk was already there."

"We should hurry then." The Beast launches off his shoulder and flies back the way Arthur and Pirkin came.

"Are you OK, Pirkin?" Arthur asks quietly.

"Ah, yes." Pirkin belatedly releases his elbow and clears his throat. "We should follow," he suggests.

* * *

"I should go out first," Arthur says. "Thursday and the Gilded Youths won't be expecting you."

"Thursday! You're working with a Trustee?" Part Five exclaims.

"Former Trustee. He's my Regent for the Great Maze and he's loyal," Arthur says. "I restored him to how he was before."

"If you say so," Part Five says, but it doesn't sound convinced.

Arthur ignores it and flies out.

The Gilded Youths are still circling, while Thursday is seated on a nearby cliff, his legs dangling off the edge. He quickly joins Arthur.

"Did you find Part Five of the Will?" Thursday asks.

"Yeah. It was the Beast," Arthur says. "And it says Friday didn't abdicate, and whatever's waiting in the Scriptorium isn't the Fifth Key."

Thursday frowns."I thought as much," he says, though he doesn't seem pleased to be proven correct.

The Beast flies out then, followed a moment later by Pirkin.

"Thursday," Part Five says, coolly.

Thursday inclines his head stiffly in greeting.

"Right, well, let's go," Arthur says. "The Scriptorium can't be far now." The ten Gilded Youths array themselves around Arthur, and they're off.

The Scriptorium is a round building with impressive columns and no windows. There is only one entrance. The peak is deserted, no signs that any Denizen is around.

"Saturday's Dusk could be waiting within," Thursday remarks.

"He probably is," Arthur agrees. If it's the same Dusk that ended Tuesday's Grotesques... laying an ambush will be right up his alley.

"We have the upper hand," Thursday adds. "In strength and numbers."

"He might not even be there. Maybe he took the fake Key, or whatever was in there, and left."

"There are some Denizens within. I can hear them moving about," Part Five says, shifting on Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur sighs. Nothing can be easy, can it? "Let's go then."

Thursday insists on taking the lead, and the group of Denizens, Parts of the Will, Gilded Youths and the Rightful Heir follows.

The Dusk from before is seated before a dais in the centre of the Scriptorium. His legs are crossed, hands folded primly over his knee. Clearly unthreatening.

"Lord Arthur. Sir Thursday." His grey eyes flick to the Will perched on Arthur's shoulder. "The Will of the Architect."

If he is bothered by the Youths that fan out, bows all trained on him, he gives no sign.

"Saturday's Dusk," Thursday says, not lowering his rapier.

The Denizen's mouth tightens. "Correct."

"Where are the Internal Auditors?" Arthur asks, looking about the room. There's nothing in it, besides the chair and the dais. And whatever is on the dais. The fake Fifth Key?

"I sent them back," Dusk responds. His tongue is silver, at odds with his apparent position. Noons have silver tongues; Dusks have black. Why, then-? "Once I ascertained that this mirror was indeed a fake, I had the Auditors report back to Superior Saturday."

"Why did you remain behind?" Thursday demands.

Dusk smiles. It is not a very nice smile, somehow managing to convey a sort of predatory sense despite being close-lipped. "I wished to speak with Lord Arthur."

"Then speak," Arthur says.

"I would like to make a proposal. An alliance, if you will," Dusk says smoothly.

"With Saturday?" Arthur asks blankly.

"With me," Dusk corrects. "I believe we can be of mutual assistance to each other."

"Why should I trust you?" Arthur demands, annoyed. "You killed Tuesday's Grotesques!"

Dusk's eyes shutter briefly, but the look quickly passes. "Indeed I did. It was not my intention, however. How could I have known Grim Tuesday's making was so flawed?"

"You still stabbed Yan in the back," Arthur says.

"So you will not ally yourself with me," Dusk says.

"Of course not! You, or another of Saturday's Times, made the Cocigrue and sent it to Earth! You killed the Grotesques, and you tried to stop Suzy from bringing me the pocket so I could defeat the Cocigrue!"

"All of which was on Saturday's orders," Dusk says.

"So what? You don't agree with her now, so you want to join me?"

Dusk raises an eyebrow. "Is that so hard to believe? You have shown yourself to be a forgiving master. Thursday stands at your side. I understand you have made him Regent. And the Will, which has killed two former Trustees, is still the Regent of the Border Sea, the Far Reaches and the Lower House. My crimes - carrying out my Lady's orders - seem to pale in comparison."

Arthur bites his lip. Put in those terms, he can't really argue. He's going to have to deal with Dame Primus somehow. But a large part of his motivation for trusting Thursday revolves around the fact that he didn't want to follow Saturday's orders in the first place. So it would be hypocritical not to at least question Dusk further...

But Arthur has no reason to trust this Denizen. He does not know him. He has not served with him as he had with Thursday.

"Why would you want to ally with me. What's in it for you?" Arthur asks suspiciously.

Dusk spreads his hands, palms up. "I do not want the House to fall into Nothing," he says. "Yet Superior Saturday seeks just that. I have heard that the Will seeks the same...but surely one so invested in his mortal world would not. Am I wrong, Lord Arthur?"

Arthur scowls. "No, you're not. But I can't help thinking that you have... other motives."

Dusk inclines his head. "All I ask is to be reappointed to Noon when you assume control of the Upper House."

"Reappointed? Why were you demoted?"

"For no good reason," Dusk says, something like fury flashing across his handsome face before his politely neutral mask returns. "Superior Saturday has long practiced rewarding the mediocre. The current Noon is weaker than I am, as is her Dawn." He tilts his head. "I believe you've met. He is a particularly slippery Denizen by the name of Pravuil."

Thursday gives Arthur a questioning glance when he stiffens. "I see," he says sourly. "So you'll help me, and you won't spy on me for Saturday, or anyone else for that matter, and in return you want me to make you Noon again, is that right?"

"Indeed. I'll even consent to properly swearing allegiance," Dusk says; his tone is much too earnest to be mocking, but Arthur can't shake the feeling that he is being made fun of anyway.

"Good, because I wouldn't trust you if you didn't," Arthur says coldly.

"Shall I kneel?" Dusk asks innocently.

"Yes, do."

Dusk slips fluidly to his knees; he's so tall that he is nearly the same height as Arthur. He takes the blade of the Fourth Key delicately in his gloved hands. "I, Saturday's Dusk, do swear to serve Lord Arthur, Master of the Lower House and the Far Reaches, Duke of the Border Sea and Overlord of the Great Maze, on this Key, the Fourth."

"I accept your allegiance, Saturday's Dusk," Arthur says.

"This is all very good," Part Five interrupts, "but the Middle House must be secured before you set your sights on the Upper, Arthur."

"Right," Arthur mutters, stashing the baton back in his belt. "But we still don't know where Friday's retreat is. I was hoping there'd be records of it or something in here..." Evidently not. The room is empty.

"The Seven Dials should be able to locate it," Dusk says. "It is in the Lower House, is it not?"

"We have no means of reaching the Lower House, or any other Demesne for that matter," Thursday says, but there is a speculative look in his eyes.

Dusk smiles widely, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth. "In that case, perhaps I could be of service."

Arthur isn't entirely sure what happens after that; a tune that is familiar and yet jarring - played without skill, off-key - sounds from nearby and as one the Gilded Youths move for Dusk.

He knocks the nearest one aside with his sheathed sword cane, but the others stream past him for the dais, arms outstretched for the false mirror upon it.

"Get back!" Part Five squawks, leaping off Arthur's shoulder. It is suddenly the same massive size it had been back in the tunnels; it shoves Arthur, Pirkin and Thursday back with one sweep of its tail.

Arthur gasps as he hits the floor, breath temporarily knocked out of him.

Dusk grabs two of the Youths, tucking one under each arm, and runs for the door.

"What-" Arthur starts to demand of the Youths, but they suddenly- aren't there. A gaping, widening maw of Nothing has opened, originating from the fake mirror that Friday had left behind.

"This is a breach into the Void itself!" Part Five roars. "You must close it, Arthur!"

Arthur scrambles to his feet, his rapier in hand. "Stop," he commands. The Key warms in his grip, and the progress of the Void slows. But it doesn't stop completely. He can see it inching outward, slowly but steadily expanding to the rest of the Scriptorium and downwards too, into the mountain, presumably. If he doesn't stop it, it will consume the Middle House, and spread to the rest of the House-

Thursday's hand closes painfully around Arthur's shoulder; it feels like it is being wrenched out of its socket as he hauls Arthur back when the Void suddenly leaps outward, the breach increasing with Arthur's doubt.

"You must stop it," Thursday says, sounding far too calm for the situation at hand. "Use the Keys."

"I only have the Fourth!" Arthur snaps. "It's not working!" The Void's pace quickens with his words, and Thursday drags him back further.

"But you are master of all by acclaim," Part Five shouts. "You can call upon their power, even if they are not physically present!"

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push aside his doubt. He is the Rightful Heir. He has healed Monday with the First Key, reinforced the outer bastion of the Far Reaches with the Second Key, banished Nothing back to the Void with the Third. It is no different than wielding the Fourth Key; he can imagine the clock hand sword in his left hand, the gauntlets snug around his fingers, the steady weight of the trident at his side.

He opens his eyes, shrugs Thursday's hand off. Steps forward.

"Halt," Lord Arthur commands.

* * *

The Void halts.

Thursday exhales, not quite a sigh. Arthur's red uniform and yellow wings are a stark contrast to the utter darkness spread before him, a light in the midst of Nothing.

"Well done, Arthur," Part Five of the Will says, bounding over.

"I did it," Arthur says, that tone of absolute authority gone from his voice. He seems to be a mere boy again, surprised to find success when he expected failure.

Not _merely_ a boy, Thursday amends, when Arthur turns around. The Third Key is thrust through his belt, the gauntlets of the Second Key wrapped around the hilts of the First and Fourth Keys. The clock hand sword's blade almost brushes the ground. With such powerful tools, there can be no mistaking Arthur's identity.

He blinks down at the other Keys, clearly startled to find them there. "Oh. Oops. I hope Dame Primus isn't too upset."

"I'm sure I will understand the circumstances," Part Five of the Will says.

Thursday rather doubts that. From what he has heard about Dame Primus - admittedly, not very much; but if the previous three Parts were anything like the slippery Fourth Part that he was charged with guarding - she is unyielding and unforgiving. She did, after all, assassinate Monday and Tuesday. And Monday had been restored to his previous self; no trace of the lazy administrator who allowed the Lower House to fall into disrepair would have remained.

"I doubt she was using them anyway," Thursday says, ignoring the sharp look that earns him from Part Five of the Will. "You mentioned that the Pit and the Border Sea remained uncontrolled."

Arthur's mouth quirks up, not quite a smile. He seldom smiles; laughs even more rarely. Thursday knows little of mortals, even less of children, but he imagines that this is not the norm. Then again, most children are not chosen by the Will to fulfill its clauses.

"I guess you should take the Fourth Key back," Arthur says, pressing it into his hand before Thursday can protest. "I have the other three now anyway."

Thursday tucks the baton into his belt without protest; Arthur has three more Keys, as he said, even if the Fourth is more suited to combat.

"More importantly, what was that?" Part Five says, turning its large eyes on Saturday's Dusk, who is still restraining two of the Gilded Youths. The only two that remain; the rest were swallowed by the Void.

"I don't know," he confesses. "I knew that the mirror was a trap set to breach the Middle House to the Void as soon as it was disturbed; but as for the sorcery used against the Gilded Youths..." He shakes his head.

"Well, whatever it is, I think it's gone," Arthur says, expectantly.

Dusk holds his gaze for a moment, then inclines his head. "Of course, Lord Arthur." He sets the Gilded Youths on their feet. They both turn to Arthur.

"Orders Lord Arthur," the slightly taller one says. Fifteen, their leader, is gone.

"Uh, stand down," Arthur says uneasily. "Wait, where's Pirkin?"

"Outside, Lord Arthur," Pirkin calls. There's nothing left for them in the Scriptorium, so the group heads out onto the peak. "I saw someone, but he fled on the Improbable Stair before I could catch him," Pirkin adds, pointing.

"The Improbable Stair," Arthur repeats blankly. "Most Denizens can't take the Stair. It won't even take you, Thursday."

"The Denizen must wield a suitable item created by the Architect," Saturday's Dusk says. "Such as the Keys. Or the Mariner's harpoon."

"Or the Piper's pipes," Thursday says, frowning. That would explain the familiar but off tune from earlier; whoever was using his pipes was not so skilled a musician as the Piper had been. And it also explained why the Gilded Youths had gone for the fake mirror; the Piper was ultimately their master. "Did you destroy them, Arthur?"

Arthur shakes his head. "No. I-" His mouth twists bitterly. "I thought they were gone after I... killed the Piper. But I guess they were just under that stupid greatcoat." He clenches his hands into fists. "Stupid. What a stupid mistake to make," he mutters. "Who knows who has them now!"

Saturday's Dusk coughs. "It must be someone from the Upper House, or perhaps the Incomparable Gardens," he says. "No Denizen from your Demesnes would betray you. I doubt they are from the Middle House - the likely suspects are either somewhere in the Secondary Realms with Lady Friday, or unlikely to use the pipes to control the Gilded Youths, in the case of Friday's Dawn."

"So Saturday has them, then."

"Most likely," Saturday's Dusk admits. "I was not aware she had retrieved them though, or that they were even still intact ... Perhaps I have fallen further from her confidences than I had thought."

"He was someone high up, but not a Trustee," Pirkin says.

Saturday's Dusk frowns. "One of my counterparts, perhaps," he mutters. "If we are to take the elevator back to the Lower House, we should do it quickly," he adds. "I do not know how much he overheard; if he suspects my betrayal. My access to the elevators may be revoked already."

"Ok." Arthur turns to the two Gilded Youths. "Report back to Friday's Dawn. Tell him we should get the Fifth Key soon."

"Acknowledged Lord Arthur." The two Gilded Youths offer snappy salutes and fly off.

Saturday's Dusk raises his hand, first finger outstretch as if to tap something. A moment later, a soft ding sounds and a reasonably-sized elevator appears out of thin air. "Private elevator, reserved for the upper management of the Upper House," Saturday's Dusk explains, stepping inside. The others follow suit. He presses a button near the bottom of the massive panel, and the elevator slides smoothly into motion. There are no judders or sudden staggering accelerations; a few moments later, it comes to a stop and the doors slide apart with another ding.

"Lord Arthur!" a startled Commissionaire Sergeant says, when Arthur steps out of the elevator. No salute, Thursday notes with disapproval. Well, there is a decided lack of discipline in the other Demesnes, especially the Lower House in recent times.

"Where's Dame Primus?"

"The Far Reaches," the Sergeant reports.

"Great." Arthur hurries down the hallway, which is flooded with paperwork. Bureaucratic stalling on the part of the Upper House, Thursday surmises.

"Sneezer!" Arthur calls when they enter the Dayroom, formerly Monday's.

"Lord Arthur, welcome back. Dame Primus will be pleased to hear of your return," Sneezer says, seeming to appear out of thin air. He looks briefly from Thursday to Saturday's Dusk to Pirkin in his shabby paper clothes, but does not do more than blink in response to the strange company Arthur is keeping.

"Let's delay that for a bit longer. I need you to find Friday's retreat in the Secondary Realms, so I can get the Fifth Key," Arthur says brusquely.

"At once, milord." Sneezer hurries to a plain-looking door and disappears inside. Arthur follows, and the Denizens follow him.

"Avraxyn," Saturday's Dusk says distastefully, recognizing the world the Seven Dials reveals after Sneezer expertly adjusts the grandfather clocks.

"That name's familiar," Arthur says. "No, tell me later," he adds when Saturday's Dusk opens his mouth to explain. "That's Leaf, and the Mariner! We have to go!" He leaps into the circle of grandfather clocks, and Thursday follows without hesitation. He is gratified to see that Pirkin does the same; Saturday's Dusk steps in at the last moment, his face unreadable.

* * *

Friday puts up little resistance; she is obviously addicted to experiencing - a horrible practice, Arthur learns - and would do anything to get another fix.

Arthur is in no mood to indulge her, and certainly not at the expense of innocent humans.

"I, Arthur Penhaligon, anointed Heir to the Kingdom, claim this Key and with it Mastery of the Middle House," he says, speaking quickly. Friday raises the mirror desperately, not even seeking to escape; she simply wants more mortal experience. "I claim it by blood and bone and contest, out of truth, in testament and against all trouble!"

The mirror, and its iridescent experiences, flies into his hand.

"Please!" Friday flings herself at his feet."Allow me one more- one more-"

"Can I return these experiences to the mortals you stole them from?" Arthur demands, ignoring her pleas.

Friday sags. "I do not know," she says dully. Fury rises within him, and Arthur is on the verge of drawing the First Key and striking her down where she stands when Dusk interrupts him with a cough.

"It should be possible, Lord Arthur."

Well, he is an Upper House sorceror. One of the best, if he's one of Saturday's Times. Even if he was boasting before, he'd still know more on the subject than anyone else that Arthur can ask.

"Though the experiences may deteriorate, the longer they are away from the mortals in question," Dusk adds mildly.

Arthur quickly raises the Fifth Key, banishing his doubts. Intent, he has found, goes a long way when the Keys are concerned. "Return the experiences, Key," he orders. The rainbow streamers waft out towards the group of people, separating into individual strands that disappear into each one.

"Arthur!" the Mariner shouts, his booming voice echoing around the area. "Order the Denizens to repel the attacking plants!"

Friday's former subordinates look at him. Thursday has Friday's Noon secured; Saturday's Dusk has done the same for his counterpart, with Pirkin hovering nearby, a mini firewash projector trained on the two of them. "Yes, do it," he orders.

He exhales heavily, almost a sigh. There are so many people... What is he going to do with all of them? And there's still Saturday to worry about. She has the Piper's pipes, and the Sixth Key, and a great deal of administrative authority to use to make his life even more difficult.

"Well done, Arthur," Part Five says.

Arthur doesn't say anything; it seems like for every task he accomplishes, there are a bunch of others waiting for him to tackle without giving him a moment's peace.


End file.
